Keep Your Eyes Down
by calebaren
Summary: Let's take two men who have built routines all of their lives, ones of stability disguised as spontaneity, ones with safety disguised as danger, and let's introduce unknowns into the balance. For instance... each other. Mafia!Steve.
1. Capo

**A/N: Okay, pardon me for my terrible knowledge of New York geography. And second of all, ugh, ugh, ugh, prepare for some monumentally bad writing.**

* * *

Tony glanced at the clock and impatiently tapped his foot loudly, earning the side-glares and soft coughs from those around him. He ignored them. The mayor droned on and on, about this policy change and this vision, about this police corruption and this budget oversight, this credit, this bank, blah blah blah. Everyone knew the mayor was just some poor schmuck stuck in this position by his rich daddy and who didn't realize the first thing about effective government. Poor kid was stumbling over his feet, every single sentence contradicting each other.

He sighed and pulled out his phone, flipping through the screens idly. He switched it off and balanced it on his knee, bored as hell. Tony looked around at the others in the gallery, some completely asleep, others listening intently and scrawling notes in their little bound books, those suckers who think they can actually change politics through petition and knowledge and a strong platform. No, that's not how it's done anymore. Maybe there was a time when that was the case, but nowadays, if you have a bottomless bank account and leverage, that's how you make a change. Those who actually get on the stage, like poor Mayor McGee up here—those are the ones that are played like puppets.

McGee said something. People clapped. Tony stood up and exited the gallery, yawning loudly. He turned on his phone. Bright sunlight hit him full on in the face as he stepped into the modern and sterile-looking lobby, big soaring skylights splashing splotches of sunshine across the floor.

He grabbed a foam cup from one of the serving tables and filled it to the brim with coffee. Tony looked around. The people watching in the galleries were now milling around, the forum adjourned, some making small talk, others in heated engagements about the McGee's speech. A stream of middle school students flowed from one of the doors, loud, obnoxious, condescending. They gathered in a huge crowd just outside the doors outside, a reeking blob of hormones and gossip. And herding them together, calmly ushering towards the door, stood the most attractive man Tony had ever seen.

He swallowed to avoid spitting out his coffee, so strong his reaction. Tony wiped his mouth and threw away the empty and stained foam cup, straightening his tie. This was his one shot, never again would he ever see such a perfect-looking man. Tony smiled to himself. He could land this one.

Tony weaved his way through the crowd, deftly shouldering past bulging bags and drinks, careful not to collide with anything that could stain. He could hear a series of muttered curses following him as he jolted people of his way, trying to catch the man before he left with his gaggle of demons.

And of course, two steps away from the man himself, he trips over an extremely short seventh grader playing with her iPod.

An arm darted under his shoulder and lifted Tony up, placing him back on his feet again. The man smiled, bright blue eyes gleaming. Tony felt his knees turn to water.

"Whoa there, steady. Hey, Shelley, put that away, okay?"

Shelley glumly looked up him, then back down. She walked away, but put the iPod back in her pocket.

"Thanks for that."

"You're welcome. And how can I help you?"

"I was just—oh, um…"

Shit, he knew. Tony struggled to come up with an acceptable reason for strong-arming across a room for a middle school teacher.

"I just wanted to say that—I really like your—shoes."

Tony wanted to slap himself so hard in his face that he would taste his own fingernails for the next three days. The man laughed. He was blond, his hair not too long, but not military-cut short either. His eyes were a blue so blue that the Pacific would be self-conscious. He stood a good five inches above Tony's head, tall, very well-built, and perfectly proportioned, with that kind of body that would look good in a suit made from plastic bags.

"I'm not giving you my number if that's what you want."

"No, I—"

"Oh, come on, Mr. Stark, everyone knows about your habits."

Oh God, so he has a brain, too. Tony felt a bit of drool roll from the left corner of his mouth. Dammit, but he recognizes him! Maybe he could still spin this…

"I—okay, you got me. Yes, I do want your number, but I'll do coffee."

The man kept on smiling.

"I have to go, Mr. Stark, I have seventy-four middle schoolers to load onto two busses."

"Wait, but—"

"Diva Espresso, today at five. Try not to be late."

He shepherded the last two kids out through the revolving doors and onto the street, out of sight.

* * *

Rogers stopped by the main office.

"How was the field trip, Mr. Rogers?" One of the office ladies asked. Rogers shrugged.

"A bit loud, overall okay."

"Thank you for coming in on such short notice, Mr. Carlson was out today and he couldn't take them."

"No problem. It's in the job description. You take care."

"See you around."

Rogers walked out into the brisk weather, a little chilled, but his cardigan trapped the heat well enough. He walked two blocks north, turned left, and continued for another three, unlocking the door to a large corrugated metal building. An abandoned warehouse.

The insides smelled like dust and drying paint. He coughed a few times and pushed through another set of doors into a long, short room, a large table in the center and a wardrobe on his left hand side. Someone painted the walls an ugly shade of green since the last time he stepped in here. It looked disgusting, but at least he didn't have to look at the profane graffiti that usually adorned the walls. Rogers stripped down, replacing jeans with sharply pressed dress pants and a suit jacket for his cardigan. He strapped a large, gold watch onto his left wrist and pulled taut a blazingly white silk tie.

Rogers pushed through the double doors, right into the main warehouse loading bay. Clint had started already half an hour ago, Rogers only late because the buses were stuck in traffic. A man's bloody and raw back glistened in the harsh light, Clint's boot on top of him, the man himself eating a snack wrap and scrolling through his phone.

"Nice of you to show up."

"Traffic."

"Ah."

"What do we got?"

"Nothing. Guy won't turn."

"You're stepping on his back. His face is in a bucket of water."

"Oh, this guy? He's been cold for... six minutes, I'm guessing."

"Why haven't you cleared the body?"

"I want to make sure he's not a world record holder."

"Get him out of here, Barton."

"Whatever, boss."

"Where's the other guy?"

"Tied up, northeast corner. I haven't started on him yet. Out cold, still."

Clint heaved the body over his shoulder, the man's cold face turning blue, all color removed from his lips, and walked out the door from which Rogers entered. Hauling the still body from the corner of the room into the center, Rogers pondered his role in society. He was a substitute teacher, working twice a week, making a substitute teacher's pay.

But most substitute teachers didn't double as a mob boss.

The man on the floor stirred as Clint walked back into the door.

"Clancy's loaded the body. Do you need him to wait for this one?"

"No, tell him to go ahead. We might need a bit of time," Rogers said, bending down to take a better look at the man, judging about how long he'll last. "What'd you get from the last man?"

Clint shook his head.

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I couldn't tell if he was sitting on it or if he honestly didn't know. Anyway, he's gone, minus a few fingers and most of his teeth."

Rogers winced. Clint shrugged.

"Plus, he was annoying."

The man on the floor was nearly lucid now, his eyes slowly opening, growing wide, then closing again, as if doing so would get him out of here.

"Who's this?"

"Quincy MacDonald."

"What's he in for?"

"He's rolled on a couple of operations out in Midtown. Potato farmer over here was muscle for Richards."

"Richards? The man from the gala?"

"Yup."

"Which ear does he chirp in?"

"We have no idea."

"So how do you know he's rolling?"

"Richards' facing twenty to life. This fucker here decided was the only man in his op not locked up."

"That doesn't mean he leaked."

"There's more. Richards had a blame system in place. Anyone leaks, he knows whodunit. Every man gets certain info, and only that man. If someone reports to the police, Richards knows which man he gave that info to. Most of it's shit, but it works. Our lawyer got a letter out of the slammer with this man's name on it."

Rogers frowned. He liked Richards. The man on the floor writhed against his bonds, eyes darting, muscles straining to break the tight cords that would never snap. He struggled to speak through the duct tape firmly plastered over his mouth.

"And the cherry on top? Guess which dumbass testified."

Rogers sighed. There's simply too much stupidity in the world.

"So Quincy. How's Richards doing? Tell me why you're here. And maybe we'll let you walk out with all twenty digits and an ice cream cone. I have a few in the back."

He's not walking out of here with all twenty digits. Or an ice cream cone. But he did have some in the back. Rogers leaned over and gently peeled the duct tape from his face. Empathy move.

"I don't know what you're talking about, this jacked up guy right there—"

"Who are you calling jacked up, you bitch on steroids," Clint challenged. Rogers silenced him with a nudge.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"So why do I hear someone telling me that you rolled on him?"

"I don't—"

Rogers picked Quincy up, hauling him clear off the ground, Quincy's feet dangling an inch off the floor, scrubbed clean despite the amount of viscera previously spilled over it.

"Yes, you do, Quincy," Rogers whispered, smiling with that smile that he knew freaked most people out. He hated using it, but it worked, more effectively than he cared to admit. Hey, if the shoe fits. "I want you to be a good little boy and tell me why you rolled, and on whose payroll you're on."

"I'm not—"

Rogers tossed Quincy town, watching him fall down heavily with a grunt, hands not free to support himself.

"A3," Rogers called out. Between Clint and him, they had a code that told them what kind of extraction method to use. The A's were beating related, B's were humiliation, C's were exposure related, D's required tools (sans the baseball bat and the crowbar, unless the crowbar is used for reasons other than beating), and E's were the "fucked-up" ones, as Clint called them. When Rogers first listed the D category, Clint winced at every single one of them, some of them he even refused to perform. So far, Rogers has never gone past D3, or drilling. By then, most people had either rolled or unfortunately, been too stupid to save themselves. If Clint ever was caught, Rogers expected him to roll over immediately. 'Don't be the hero,' he had told him. 'You'll just make yourself look dumb. And probably lose an arm or something. Don't try to make death painful.'

Clint kicked the man in the shin, right at the hollow where the bone was most exposed and snapped easily, not to mention extremely painfully. A sickening (and satisfying) crack sounded, followed by a howl of pain.

"McAllister, it's McAllister," Quincy made out through gasps of pain. Rogers sighed. He feared this would be the prolonged, bloody interrogation from movies. He had one of those two weeks ago, a long affair where the man wouldn't make a single sound, even when Clint had locked him into a tiny two by two by three box for twelve hours missing two fingers and most of his toes. They opened it up twelve hours later, and the man had passed, using the blood from his fingers to write "YOU LOSE" on the sides in scarlet, raggedy letters.

Quincy panted on the ground, still moaning from the pain.

"Do you have a family, Quincy?"

"Wife, three kids in Brooklyn," he spoke through gritted teeth. "Why? Don't touch them, you bastard, if you—"

Rogers glanced at Clint. Clint nodded. So he was telling the truth.

"I won't touch them."

Rogers couldn't bring himself to kill Quincy. The man had a family, for crying out loud.

"Send him home."

"Rogers—"

"Thank you, thank you so much, I won't roll on you, I swear by my life, I—"

"Get him out of here."

Clint rolled his eyes but complied. Steve checked his watch. He had twenty minutes to change and get back Downtown.

* * *

Tony had his chauffeur drop him off two blocks away in an alleyway to avoid the whole arrival mess and attention. Most days, he would find the longest limo he could and have red carpets and everything, but not today. He didn't want anyone finding out about his little meet-up.

He found the place easy enough. The small, cozy room smelled nice, aromatic, chocolaty and a bit sweet. No bookshelves climbed up to the roof, no faux bricks adorned the walls, but they were simply whitewashed with a few blackboards here and there advertising specials. He saw the teacher sitting in the corner, reading a book. He had changed his clothes from earlier. Tony slid into the opposite seat.

"Hello."

"Hello, Mr. Stark."

"Stop calling me that. And I don't even know you're name."

"Rogers. Steve Rogers."

He held out his hand and Tony shook it.

"Did you want anything?"

"Plain black coffee, no sugar, no cream, if you would so please."

"On its way."

Tony stood up and made his way to the barista. She smiled at him and batted her lashes. Tony ignored her. He ordered Steve's drink along with an iced latte and sat back down. The barista had scrawled her number on Tony's drink. He smeared off the pen with his thumb.

"So what were you doing at city hall?"

"I needed to talk to the McGee. I got some letter the other day saying my building was too tall or some shit like that. Who does that? Who sends you a letter, _three years_ after your building has capped off, saying that it's fifty feet too tall?"

"Most people don't own buildings."

"Well this fucker does. And I checked the code, Stark Tower is perfectly fine."

"Why the mayor? Shouldn't this be brought up to city planning?"

Tony waved off an errant fly.

"It's quicker through McGee. That guy's a real imbecile. He's been in office for what, two years, and he's pushed for what change, exactly? It's a miracle he even got into office with the platform that he had. Well, I say miracle."

Steve shifted uncomfortably.

"He does a fine job. Not great, but fine, if you ask me."

Tony shrugged.

"Be my guest. So, Steve, can I call you Steve? You're a teacher—"

"Substitute," Steve corrected, "substitute teacher."

Tony raised his eyebrows.

"Oh, okay, substitute teacher. I've always wondered, and pardon me for asking, but how do you guys get by?"

Steve laughed.

"Odd jobs. I only sub three times a week. Other days I… I have other jobs. I'm a chauffeur on Sundays from ten till six, and a bartender from eight till two. On Mondays I sub, and then I'm a bouncer at the same bar I manned the night before. And so on. The pay from the subbing is negligible, but… yeah, the other jobs pick up the slack," Steve said, the lies coming out thick and smooth.

"Really. Huh. Ever thought about settling down?"

"Yup. And nope."

Tony checked his watch out of habit. Five-forty. "And what about you, Mr. Stark? How do you make money? I've never understood how CEOs get paid."

"I'm not the CEO, I'm the owner, thank you very much, as well as the chief and only inventor of Stark Industries. Stocks, mainly, that's how I do it, and patents. The patents are nice, considering the number I hold. I take a normal salary from the company, not too extravagant, but it's a good amount."

Steve nodded. They had been skirting around the elephant in the room; how Steve basically was the object of every single woman's desires ever, and how he was now sitting in a bar in Manhattan having coffee with New York's biggest manwhore and the world's richest and smartest man. What are the odds?

"I don't do this often," Steve acknowledged.

"Do what?"

"Go out."

"Do you get invitations a lot?"

Steve shook his head.

"Are you kidding me? With… that?" Tony asked in surprise as he gestured at Steve's body.

"With what?"

"Do you work out or something?"

"Sometimes, when I have the time. I know I'm fit, but—"

"Dude, I know people who would actually try anything for a body like that. Like, crazy voodoo rituals and the strangest concoctions you've ever heard of. Whale blubber and yogurt is a common one."

"Yuck."

"But seriously? You don't get asked out? You don't get numbers on your cup? Free drinks, stuff like that? Girls going up to you and literally bending over backwards just to try to get your attention?"

Steve shook his head again. Tony sighed. He tapped on the shoulder of the girl sitting at the table next to his. "Hi, sorry to bother you, quick question. Would you go out with him?"

"Yes."

"See?"

"Was that an offer?"

"No."

"Every time," she muttered, opening her book again and angrily biting her croissant.

"See?"

"Okay, that was one time."

Tony rolled his eyes, stood up on his chair and loudly cleared his throat.

"Hi, everyone, look up here—hi, yes, everyone. Okay, would you go out with this charming man over here? Wave for everyone, Steve, oh come on, don't hide."

"Oh my God," Steve groaned, hiding his face in his palm. But the entire shop murmured its assent, men included.

"Yeah, man, I'd fuck you," one brazen man called from the opposite wall. Tony sat back down in his seat and grinned.

"That was so very kind of you, Mr. Stark," Steve dryly droned.

"Oh, God, just call me Tony. "

Tony heard his stomach roar like a caged lion. He hadn't eaten since breakfast, and even that was half of an everything bagel plus an apple. "Hey, do you know any good steakhouses around here? I'm starving."

* * *

Clint paced nervously in the bathroom, wringing his hands. The boss would not like to hear this. The door opened, and Rogers stepped inside the cramped room.

"What is it?"

"Sorry to interrupt you, but—"

"Before you start, I just wanted to ask if you had any breath mints on you."

"Uh, yeah, sure," Clint answered, digging around in his pockets and handing Rogers a tin of Altoids. "But we have—we have an incident in Brooklyn."

"Shoot."

"Pryce's in the hospital with gunshot wounds and Purcell's… Purcell's gone."

Rogers' jaw twitched.

"What happened? And what do you mean gone?"

"We lost contact with Purcell at around the time we got red flags down in Pryce's district. We still don't know what happened yet. I have Wilsons and Nicks scanning for Purcell, but we're thinking it has something to do with—boss, hey!"

Rogers exited as quickly as he came in, the door swinging behind him.

Steve slid back into his seat, looking tense.

"Something wrong?" Tony asked. Steve had left in the middle of a divine prime filet; he didn't choose wrong, this place was as good as he remembered it.

"No, no, it's just… there's a little incident down in Brooklyn that concerns someone I know."

"What?"

"It's nothing. So what were you talking about?"

"Steve, I'm a bitch, but if you have to go right now, just go. The steak can wait."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Go."

"All right. I'll see you around."

Steve tossed a hundred dollar bill on the table and shuffled between the tables (giving Tony a pleasant view of his backside) and exited the restaurant. Tony pocketed the Franklin and set down his own credit card. He was a substitute teacher, dammit. He'd hand it back next time. The bell on the door jangled again and Steve ran back inside.

"I need a ride," he admitted.

* * *

Rogers got a call from Clint.

"If this is more bad news, I will—"

He remembered he wasn't alone in the car.

"We found Purcell."

"Is he…"

"Still breathing."

"How bad?"

"Beaten up pretty badly and close to drowning. Nicks fished him from the river with a bag of rocks tied to his feat. He was holding onto a pier."

"Jesus. I'm on my way. Which hospital?"

"Mount Sinai." Rogers broke off the call and sighed.

"Mount Sinai," he added, directed towards the taxi driver. Until this point, they had been heading in the general direction of Brooklyn.

A frown grew deeper on Tony's face.

"I don't mean to pry, but I have no idea what's going on."

"One of my friends was shot."

"God."

The taxi swerved across three lanes of traffic and nearly clipped the red light. Instead, the driver screeched the brakes down hard and sent Rogers and Tony face-first into the headrests in front of them. There goes the tip.

* * *

"No, you don't understand, I'm his emergency contact."

"Are you Shri Chandragupta?"

"I'm his… his colleague."

"Sorry."

"Fine, fine," Rogers growled, frustrated. Pryce was in there, twenty feet away, and Rogers couldn't even see him. Tony stepped up to the receptionist. He slipped a fifty. Then another when she didn't say anything. She cracked finally at two hundred.

"I'm going to go take a bathroom break," she announced loudly. Steve pushed through the double doors and jogged down the hallway, Tony behind him. He opened the door into the ICU and was startled by the sight.

"Hi, boss."

Matthew Pryce, sitting there, calmly spooning tomato soup into his mouth, a thick layer of gauze over his left leg and a bandage on the back of his hand, not to mention a nasty bruise covering his left side, but otherwise unharmed. He spilled some soup over his hospital gown.

"Shit, that burns."

"Pryce, I thought you were…"

"I was. Just not badly. Not sure what shit Barton fed you, but I'm fine."

"Did you see who shot at you?"

"Shot? What shots?"

"Clint told me you were shot."

Puzzlement clouded Pryce's face.

"I was biking and I hit a car."

Rogers stewed for a moment, Tony in the corner, seated in a flimsy plastic chair, thinking. Rogers threw open the door and stepped into the hallway. He angrily hit the speed dial for Clint.

"Barton," Clint answered.

"You have three seconds to tell me why the hell Pryce doesn't have a single ounce of lead in his body."

"What?"

"It was a goddamn bike accident, Clint!"

"No, there were three shots fired, two in quick succession, one two seconds later."

"Who gave you the info?"

"I—I heard them myself."

"What?"

"I saw Pryce go down. I took him to the hospital, and then went to go get you. And I still have no idea why you had to get a ride from Tony when I had a chauffeur sitting out on the street waiting for you. How do you think I got to the restaurant?"

"You're telling me that you saw, with your own eyes, Pryce go down in a barrage of bullets. And you took him to the hospital."

"I called the ambulance, staunched the bleeding, and then rode with Pryce to the hospital, yes. Three shots, two of them hit, one of them in his left hand and the other in the thigh. It missed the femoral by a centimeter. I didn't get the gunman."

"I'm looking at Pryce right now, and he looks perfectly fine. He claims it was a bike accident."

"What the hell?"

"Did you see your Pryce go into surgery?"

"Yes. I waited outside the door until the light went on that meant that they started cutting and slicing and whatever. Then I sprinted to the car and had them drive me to the restaurant."

"So now we have one Pryce dying of two gun wounds that you sent into surgery, and another one sitting right here ladling tomato soup into his mouth."

"I think I have an answer to that," Tony called, rolling a choking Pryce onto his side. "Code blue," he called, ripping open an intubation kit with his teeth. The monitor beeped loudly as Pryce's heart rate spiked, then flatlined, Pryce's organs failing all at once, his diaphragm stilled, his windpipe inflamed, his heart pumping nothing but air. Nurses rushed into the room, where Tony had already swabbed Pryce's neck with iodine, about to start a tracheotomy.

From his standpoint, Rogers couldn't see the chaos. He could only see the two tiny exit wounds, one on Pryce's hamstrings, and the other in the palm of his hand.


	2. Accelerando

**A/N: So, how's it going? Answer in reviews!**

* * *

"That's one hell of a way for a first date to end, don't you think?"

Tony set down two mugs on the table and slid into his seat. Rogers allowed himself a peek at the floor they were on, a wide-open kitchen with soaring skylights, shiny appliances, and twisted metal sculptures protruding from the floor, the ceiling, and the walls. Everyone modern, modern, modern, modern. He felt a bit unsettled by the sterile ambiance, but he shook it off.

"Sorry I dragged you into this."

"So we have a guy named Matthew Pryce. Your buddy Clint—don't act so surprise, Steve, you were talking pretty loudly on the phone—who sees Pryce gunned down by an unknown entity, and then delivers him to surgery. I've checked the records, surgery at Mount Sinai does have a check-in at around the time Clint reported the incident, and the injuries operated on are consistent with the ones Clint reported and the ones on Pryce's body."

"And then he dies."

"Not so fast. So we have Pryce go into surgery at…"

Tony consulted his phone. "At 16:57, Matthew Pryce is checked into surgery. By 18:16, when you signed the visitor's book, Matthew Pryce has already been out of surgery for a while. He was drinking soup. He was gunned down in the left hand, and he was drinking soup. At 18:23, Pryce crashes. Every single organ fails at once. But up until this point, Pryce did not seem to be in any severe pain, and believed that he had suffered a bicycle accident and not the two shots that Clint witnessed and his body can attest to.

"Then there's the issue of the wounds themselves. I've taken a look at them; exit wounds are consistent with a .22 Walther. But they looked almost healed over, like they've been there for months and not a couple of hours. In addition to no pain, Pryce had no problem using his left hand. Tissue damage had been somehow reversed; the shot should've punctured his flexors, but he still had grasp of the spoon. He's left-handed, as you've noticed."

Rogers had finished half his coffee by this point.

"So we have a guy who has no idea he was just shot, whose gun wounds from the aforementioned shots are healing, and who then suffers total organ failure with no external trigger."

"Correctamundo."

"And then he dies."

"And then he dies," Tony repeated. They both took long sips of coffee; Tony's brow furrowed in thought, Rogers pondering larger questions at hand. He stood up suddenly.

"This is too much to ask for on a first date, I'm sorry. If you want me to leave, I can just walk out that door and you never have to deal with this crazy ever again."

"Oh, shut up. You're staying."

Rogers looked at Tony in confusion.

"What? Why aren't you asking me to leave?"

"Why would I ask you to leave? This is fun."

Tony sipped at his coffee. He liked watching Steve fluster around.

"I don't think…"

"Well I do, more than enough for both of us. And I really like you, Steve. You're not one of those mindless, easily confused bimbos that I _hate_. You're good, at least in Tony Stark's book."

"Thanks…?"

"Look, I can help you find whoever did this. I can pull strings. I have favors to call in. You can take the underground route, but I can get police resources on it, no questions asked."

Despite his assurances, Tony's innards roiled. He had no idea what had happened last night, and he was beginning to doubt Steve's authenticity. What substitute teacher has a friend that gets shot, forgets about it, then has every organ in his body fail? And then… Pryce had called Steve "boss". Unless he was some kind of substitute principal or he had a bartending apprentice, Tony had a nagging feeling in his gut that Steve had withheld quite a bit of information.

"Okay then," Rogers said, sitting down. "Let's do this."

* * *

Tony woke up violently, shifting over stacks and stacks of papers, some of them falling to the ground.

"Shit, shit shit," he cursed, grabbing the files before they all scattered over the floor. He sat up, a dull ache in his back and a sore on the back of his head from sleeping. Tony groaned as he swung his legs over the edge of the table, sending more papers cascading down, and hopped off.

"Good morning."

"Hi. How long was I out?"

"A good three hours."

"Jesus, I have to work."

"Relax, hey, take a break."

"I just took a three hour one. Now back to work."

"Okay, your call," Steve relented. He handed Tony a Starbucks mug, vanilla latte, and handed a thick file to Tony. "I sifted through all of the security stills of the area where Pryce was shot, up to four hours before and after the incident. Barton and Pryce were in a warehouse when it happened."

"About that. What's your relationship with Barton?"

"He's… he's a really good friend."

Steve coughed.

"Okay, I'll take that."

"There's nothing on video. The shooter had the mind to keep his face out of every single camera, but I got the back of his head. The image's grainy, but it seems he has a full head of hair, cut short, not quite military length but coming close, well-built, and blond."

"Is that a scar running down his neck?"

"I'm not sure. It could be, or it could be a security wire. Either way, it's small, and it's not enough to go by."

Tony strode over to his living room and swiped in midair. Glowing images surrounded him, blue screens hovering without wires. Steve's jaw dropped. Tony, seeing his face, smiled to himself. That's what they all do.

"JARVIS, security footage of the warehouse."

"Loading, sir."

A series of images flashed up. Tony threw them onto the walls, and they sharpened, JARVIS touching up the edges. Steve squinted at the one still with the man, the front of his body angled towards the camera but his head turned so it was looking directly away. He was wearing a uniform, presumable a janitor.

"What does that patch say," Tony asked. He zoomed in on a section of the sleeve, where blurry capital letters appeared. "C—A—M, S," Tony made out.

Steve's head snapped up.

"Say that again."

"CAMS," Tony repeated.

"I know what that is."

"What?"

"Carmen Alvarez Middle School. I was subbing there when I met you."

* * *

"No, we don't have anyone matching that description working here."

"Alright, thanks for your time."

Rogers ran a hand through his hair. It's been twenty-seven hours since he last slept. Up until this point, he'd been running on caffeine, adrenaline, and cold anger. Pryce was a good friend, not to mention a great lieutenant. He drank too much and he womanized excessively, but the small things Rogers could ignore.

"Anything?"

"No."

Tony frowned.

"Sorry."

"Something's not right here. Why would he be wearing that uniform? It's not a coincidence. He knew that I would be subbing there."

"Who is this guy?"

* * *

Tony flubbed down on the couch, exhausted. It's been another 24 hours, and so far, they've followed up on three dead-ends, no help from the police, and Steve calling Pryce's family.

"He doesn't talk with them a lot," Steve explained. "I'm more or less his only contact with society."

The amount of information they had to sift through was astounding. Pryce's autopsy report came in later that afternoon, exactly two days since Tony ran into Steve and a little less since the shooting.

Rogers checked his watch nervously. He had business to attend to, and this business with Pryce was taking an awfully long time. Don't get him wrong, he felt bad that Pryce had to go. But life still went on. And another thing, Tony would be suspicious if he left so early.

"Listen, Tony," he said. "I have to sub today, and school starts in half an hour. I have to go."

"Alright, you know where to find me," Tony called back, not looking up from his tablet, furiously tapping his fingers and checking the papers. "David Ricardo…"

Steve tapped the button for the bottom floor and the doors slid silently shut.

* * *

It was ten in the morning.

But still not too early for a drink. Clint emptied the last drips of vodka into Rogers' tumbler and watched as he downed the shot in one gulp, setting the glass down hard enough that Clint feared for the crystal's integrity.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

Rogers nodded, his eyes screwed shut.

"I wonder how I got here."

"'Scuse me?"

"I started out as an orphan in Brooklyn," Steve began. "And then twenty years later, here I am. I don't even remember how and when I first met you."

"I… I'm a serf. I come with the territory."

"Sure you do. If I stepped down right now, if I just swung the white flag and walked away to go to Napa Valley or something for the rest of my life, would you stay here?"

Clint considered it. Then shook his head.

"I'd probably find something in San Francisco."

"Exactly. You're a good friend, Barton," Rogers said, obviously drunk, clapping Clint twice on the back. The blows brought winces to Clint's face; Rogers was much stronger than he looks. Which was already quite fearsome. "Sorry," he muttered. "Do you have any more of this," he asked, pointing at the empty bottle.

"No, no, either you go to bed or you throw up. I've given you as much as you're going to get."

"Fine, I'll go to sleep."

Rogers whined as Clint half-dragged half-slapped Rogers into his bedroom, where he struggled to strip Rogers down to the underwear and shoved him onto the bed. Yes, yes, he knew what it must have looked like. And Clint had to admit; Rogers' figure was anything if not impressive. Clint didn't consider himself one for swinging both ways, but if Rogers asked, he'd go for it. Clint covered Rogers with his blanket and watched him as he passed out almost immediately.

Clint shuttered the windows against the bright mid-morning sun and sauntered back into his living room, tossing the Smirnoff into the recycling and sitting down with a legal pad and a pen. He began to write down what he had to do for the day.

Funeral plans for Pryce and Purcell.

Finding out who's responsible for the missing 30k from the Gauter heist.

Punish aforementioned.

Talk to the bookies about increasing client pressure.

Running that Jenkins extortion scheme he'd always been dying to try.

Jazzercise.

Investigate the restaurant fuck-ups in Brooklyn.

Take out the Castellano point man. He was too chatty.

Everyone gets into the mob for one purpose—money. Most of the time, it's because they lack it. It starts off that way, at least. And then the more brutal ones take control and get richer and richer and they get more and more ruthless and greedier and greedier and pretty soon you've got a pretty accurate replica of capitalism on your hands. Clint had needed money for his mom's cancer. She needed chemo, and they were poor, much too poor to afford it, Clint had barely enough money to get textbooks for high school, but she had insisted. Clint smiled as he remembered his mother, firm, demanding, and soft when she had to be, just as a mother should. He had been an athlete, an archer, looking for a full ride to who-knows-where, but just praying for a miracle. He was the best, the best sharpshooter anywhere, but who needs a star _archer_ on their roster?

He didn't get the scholarship. No scholarship, no chemo.

No chemo, no mom.

He forgot what it was, but he started small and worked his way up, in the mob, that was, killing when he had to, opening little pockets of anarchy here and there that sorted themselves out somehow with Clint Barton at the top. And this continued, after a few years, until he was right under Steve Rogers, the richest and most brutal of them all, the ultimate capitalist. He remembered first meeting him, in that tiny room, where Steve held a gun to a man's bruised and bloody head, calmly counting to ten, then pulling the trigger, and he had looked at Clint, just a few years out of high school, with those dangerous, gleaming blue eyes. And the first thing that came out of his mouth?

"I'm sorry you had to end up here."

"I need the money."

"What for?"

"Mom has cancer."

Steve set down his gun, peeled off his bloody latex glove, and reached into his suit jacket. Clint stood there awkwardly, not sure what was going on, and what this man wanted. If he was dangerous or not. Clint only knew how to deal with the former, and most of them ended with one dead body.

"Is one hundred enough?"

"Dollars?"

"Grand."

"Yes."

Rogers scribbled on the checkbook, signed off, and ripped the checked off for Clint, who gingerly held it.

"Your signing bonus," Rogers dryly remarked, followed with a smile. "Go get your mom the treatment. Take your first day off."

Every time Clint calls back home, mother, now sixty-eight, asks how Steve's doing. And every time, every time he hears her talk, her laugh, or talk about her day, about her old friend Marlene, with whom she plays poker every Friday at the center two blocks away, Clint cries, his voice not showing it but tears streaming down his face as he says,

"Same old, same old."

Clint stood up, walked over to the cabinet stocked full with liquor, and pulled out a bottle of cheap $10 whiskey, unscrewing the lid. He poured two fingers, chewed on his tongue, and poured out two more.

* * *

Tony gave up. He tossed his tablet onto the couch. This investigation was too far-flung and too underground to go anywhere. There was the matter of motive; who would want to kill Prcye? He had plenty of enemies as it was, being a member of the local mafia. That had surprised Tony. Steve? Making mob friends? He'd ask him about that.

And then there was the extremely unorthodox manner in which Pryce died. Tony had seen some strange things, but nothing like this. The theories and conjectures and anatomy he studied for his supplement degrees did not help one bit.

He flubbed down on the sofa.

"Shades, please."

The windows grew smoky as JARVIS increased the opacity. Tony closed his eyes. The last image flashing through his brain, through the visual nets and the flow charts he constructed all leading back to Pryce, was a huge question mark flashing over Steve Rogers' head.

* * *

Steve woke up with a huge headache. He'd been getting those a lot. Maybe he should cut back on the drink. His shoulder hurt, and the left side of his face felt numb. Steve slapped some sensation back into it, and stared at the clock uncomprehendingly. It was nine. In the morning. He slept at ten. Oh shit.

The door opened at this time.

"Hello?" Steve called out. He heard a gun cock, the quiet patter of footsteps, and a muzzle pointing around the bevel of the doorframe.

"Fuck, you're still here, sorry boss."

Clint flipped the safety back on and set down his back of groceries.

"Why the hell didn't you wake me up?"

"I tried to, but you just punched me. Hard."

Clint lifted up the hem of his t-shirt and showed Steve the green, ugly patch on his left side. Steve winced. He vaguely remembered hitting something, and his hand felt a bit sore.

"Sorry about that."

"Nothing that hasn't been done before. I'm about to leave, soon, again, so…"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm just going to go. And uh, Clint. Thanks for handling my… my breakdown."

Clint laughed.

"That's a breakdown? It's Wednesday night for me. Don't worry about it. I finished your hit list yesterday. You might want to check up on the Brooklyn fiasco, though, the restaurants are collapsing left and right."

"All right. Thanks."

"Anytime, boss."

Steve forced himself up and into the bathroom, where he downed two aspirin for the throbbing in his head and collected the clothes that Clint stacked on the nightstand, neat and folded and smelling freshly washed.

* * *

"Sir, your six o'clock appointment is in the lobby."

"Send 'em home, JARVIS."

"It's Mr. Rogers, sir."

Tony's eyes flew open, and he scrambled off the couch.

"I need an elevator to my floor. Hurry."

JARVIS sent a lift screeching down, the doors opening with an innocent _ding_. He tapped his foot impatiently as the car rose, then deposited him on the thirty-seventh floor, where his bedroom and closet were. He tore off his damp and rank clothes and pulled on some sweats, but they were too small so Tony settled for jeans. A screen flashed before his eyes, showing Steve already in the lift.

"JARVIS, why'd you let him in?"

"What would you have me do otherwise, sir?"

"Delay him, send him crashing down to the basement, give him a movie, just don't let him get up here before I say so!"

The jeans smelled weird. Tony threw the pair behind him and tried on some shorts.

"Thirteenth floor."

"Stop the car."

A faint _clack_ echoed up the elevator shaft. The shorts had a huge bleach spot right over the crotch where Tony spilled a big jug of Clorox on the rare occasion when he does the laundry.

"Shit, shit, shit," he cursed, all of the pants that he had with some defect or another. Khakis with a leg cut off. Sweatpants with a snapped waistband. He finally found his old pair of jeans from high school, grease stains still imprinted into the soft denim, a few holes in it, but otherwise unharmed.

"Where's he now?"

"Still stopped. And trying to break his way out of the elevator, it seems," JARVIS commented, amusement crawling into his British drawl. A computer with an attitude. Tony glanced at the hovering screen, Steve's legs disappearing from view as he climbed up out of the roof of the elevator and into the shaft.

"All right, start it up. But slowly," Tony added, seeing how Steve fell back down to the ground of the elevator just as the car started again.

Tony didn't have time for a shirt. It was clear across the floor. He jogged back to the elevator, where JARVIS had one waiting for him already. The doors closed and JARVIS whisked him down fourteen floors, shirtless, sweating a little bit, his hair a bit messed up, and wearing a pair of jeans.

The doors slid open as Tony ran into the kitchen, pretended to be relaxed, and tossed away the underwear he had been holding just as the doors to Steve's car opened.

"Oh… am I… interrupting something?" He asked, expression priceless. Only then did Tony consider the sight he must be. And he smiled a bit to himself as the full impact hit.

"Oh, no, no, I just… finished working out," he lied. "Anything to drink?"  
"Coffee'll be fine," Steve replied, unsure, setting his satchel to lean against the wall. Tony poured two mugs of coffee. He walked into the sitting area slowly and sat down on the couch obscenely close to Steve, who instinctively scooted a couple of inches away, pretending to be poring over the folders, their contents laid out on the floor and the coffee table.

"So what have you found out?"

"Pryce had a couple of enemies. He was mafia, a small official of sorts, overseeing the bootlegging business in Brooklyn among other things."

Tony noticed Steve's faked surprise and filed it away for another time.

"And what about his death?"

"Yeah, about that," Tony answered, swiping his hand in midair. A diagram of an extremely long molecule snaked in the air, wrapping itself around the room and coiling shut into a cube-like figure.

"This is what toxicology returned."

"What is that?"

"Nobody knows."

"That's unsettling."

"No, it's not that nobody knows what it is, or where it comes from, it's just that nobody quite knows how it… got here. This molecule's name is Titan-31B, with an accompanying scientific name that puts titin to shame."

"Titin?"

"Another time. But anyway, it's an extremely complex toxin, undetected by most toxin screens despite its distinctive containment of several unusual elements, such as titanium, bismuth, molybdenum, and one atom each of radon and uranium. It's just too far-fetched to screen for."

"And why does no one know why it 'got here?'"

"It's typically found only in a very rare species of jellyfish. How it's produced has never been witnessed, nor has this molecule ever been produced in a laboratory. It's found in the carcasses of these jellyfish," Tony explained, dragging a blurry color picture of a gargantuan mess of stingers in front of Steve, "the total worldwide population which is only numbered in the low thousands. Only four carcasses have ever been found, each one with high levels of this molecule in its stingers."

"What are we looking at, then?"

"The thing about this toxin is that no one really quite knows what it does. Presumably, what happened to Pryce is what happens when a human comes into contact with it. A delayed reaction several hours later, causing total organ failure as this molecule degrades and wreaks havoc with the rest of the body. But the amounts required to do so are too high; the amount in Pryce is several thousand times higher than the estimated amounts in the total jellyfish population."

"We're looking at some insane, weird toxin that has some unknown effect, used on one of my boot—friends, from a rare _jellyfish_, and the amount in Pryce is impossible."

Steve licked his dry lips as Tony caught his Freudian slip. _Bootlegger_, that was what he was going to say. _Pryce was a bootlegger_.

"Yup, basically."

"Christ. And how was it introduced into Pryce?"

"Probably through the surgeon. But I've checked his credentials; perfectly clean, nothing that could bribe him or blackmail him. He hasn't fled anywhere, and the police have detained him. He maintains his innocence and looks genuinely confused."

"I'll look more into him."

"You do that. How was subbing? You didn't pick up your phone yesterday, or this morning."

"How'd you get my phone number?"

"Sorry."

"Tony."

"I got curious. It's not hard to find you, you know. I simply slipped into the four local school district intranets that are in the general area, searched through their teacher databases, called the school that you were subbing at, and got your phone number from one of the helpful volunteers determined to help their children's education in any way possible, God bless their ignorant souls."

"Or… you could've just checked," Steve answered, plucking his cell from in between the seat cushions. "I left it here yesterday. It's not password protected."

"Or that. But my way's easier."

"So what are we going to do about Pryce?"

"It's up to you. He's your employee."

"Employee?"

"Right before he died, he called you 'boss.'"

"Oh, that. Just an inside joke."

Tony frowned, but went along with it, again filing the information away. Remind JARVIS to create a folder called "Steve Rogers".

"I still have a few more boxes to go through. It's all stuff from the surgeon's apartment," Tony said, casually draping his arm over the back of the couch, around Steve.

"Why isn't the police doing this?"

"I'm a man that gets bored easily. I need something to occupy my time, lest my idle hands do something naughty…"

Tony leaned in close, his lips just an inch from Steve's, but he hovered there, smirking, mouth slightly open, tongue pressed to the back of his left canine flirtingly. Steve didn't look confused, or offended, just pleasantly surprised, and his own hand moved to Tony's knee. Tony's left thumb caressed Steve's shoulder gently. Then he stood up, breaking off whatever happened in between them. Always a tease.

"Let's go get dinner," Tony said, stretching and giving Steve a very nice view. He thought he heard a whimper from the man sitting on the couch, but he just chalked that to a stomach growl. "I'll go shower and then we can eat. No steak this time."

"He'll be the death of me," Steve snarled as Tony walked, humming, into the elevator, still maddeningly shirtless.


	3. Sforzando

**A/N: Let me just say, I've never had so much fun writing. The characters are coming back, yo! Also, my very first time writing... I won't give it away. It's not smut, I'm not quite ready to take the plunge, but I'm getting there.**

* * *

"You ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

Tony flipped the fedora over the top of his head so it was slightly askew and flashed a smile at Steve, that devil may care grin that usually sent people melting to their knees. Literally.

Steve just glared at Tony, not much in his face but a tad touchy, and turned sharply on his heel, strolling through the wide open doors of the lobby, Tony close in tow.

"What to you feel like?"

"You know this place better than I do. You pick a spot. I picked last time."

"I requested last time," Tony corrected, flipping a quarter into the cup of a sleeping hobo. Usually, Tony never gave out more than a dollar in cash, but handed them food if he had any available. He didn't trust them with too much money, afraid that it would perpetuate bad habits. Hypocritically.

"I don't know. I'm not really in the mood for anything heavy."

"Sushi?"

"What's that?"

"Are you kidding me?"

Tony stopped in midstride, grin growing ever larger, one hand tucked into the shimmery grey of his silk pants that complemented his vest. "You don't know what sushi is?"

"Is that… Middle Eastern? I don't like Middle Eastern food," Steve quickly added. He remembered that time Clint brought back Arabian takeout while Steve worked out the details of an especially intricate job, the Waldstein extortion. That was a good job. Clean, simple, elegant. Beautifully executed, no one captured, everyone got paid. Cold case in police books; it wasn't a big hit. At least, officially. Steve pored over the details for a good three days, making sure nothing would screw up. He had backups of backups. He had worked long hours that week, often getting no sleep at all. So Clint got food. But Steve nearly threw up when he took the first bite and the flavor hit.

"You live in the 21st century, right? How could you not know what sushi is? I'm taking you."

Tony snapped his fingers at the surging traffic, currently stuck in the throws of the afternoon rush as people honked and cut and swerved, all in a desperate attempt to get home faster. A cab shouldered through the congestion and pulled up alongside the curb.

"Don't you have a chauffeur?"

"Coming to expect a certain lifestyle, huh, Rogers?" Tony smirked, sliding into the cab and gesturing for Steve to do the same. "I don't always take my towncar. Sometimes this is more fun. Masa," Tony said, the last word directed towards the cab driver. He turned around in surprise.

"You're eating at Masa—hey, it's Tony Stark!"

"Hi, yes, yes, now get a move on, I'm starving. Pictures after the show."

* * *

Clint strolled back into the dark warehouse, yellow police tape strewn around the cavernous room, the floors scrubbed, the faint pink of the unwashed blood still visible on the ground. The sky had grown dark quickly, considering the late hour, and the streetlights had flickered on one by one and slowly flickered out again, the light bulbs ancient and yellowing, unreliable. He stood where Pryce had been shot, turning a full circle. The man had been a good eight yards away, maybe ten. Clint found the approximate angle at which the slugs hit Pryce, and he slowly paced to the spot where the shooter stood. He raised a finger gun, closed one eye, and visualized Pryce, standing there, smoking a cigarette, Clint not ten feet away from him, but out of sight from the shooter. Clint mentally corrected himself after thinking _killer_.

"Hands up, don't move. Two bullets in your knee if you try to run."

Clint complied as he felt a manacle clamp down over his right wrist, then another over his left. The hands working the cuffs were slight, feminine. He twisted around suddenly, catching those hands between the chains, dragging her down to the ground and flipping her over, her gun forced out of her hands. Clint kicked it far to the side, into one of the deep pools of shadow. She was helpless.

"Who are you?" He snarled, his boot on the small of her back, forcing her down.

"Natasha Romanoff, NYPD," she breathed, wincing as Clint tugged a bit upwards at, her arms about to pop from their sockets. "And you?"

"Nobody. I'm going to leave now, and you never saw me here."

"Why are you here?"

"No more questions," he growled, taking his foot off her back while simultaneously untangling the chains from her hands, silently striding two steps to the left and blending into the darkness instantly. Even though he hid no more than ten feet away from her, she would never find him. He quietly picked up the gun that he kicked away earlier and watched as she stood up with a groan, her flame-red hair, cropped short, falling to her fingers. Dressed in a police uniform, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and an empty holster around her belt. She picked up her radio.

"Fury? We have a situation. There's an unknown perp here. He looked like—he looked like he was trying to recreate the crime. I tried to bring him in for questioning, but he assaulted me."

"You going to file?"

"I didn't even get his face."

"Sharpen up, Romanoff," the voice in the radio barked. Clint didn't like it.

"Yes sir," she said, spitting out every word. Turns out she didn't like it either.

She clicked off the radio and stretched. Clint couldn't help but look, and immediately felt bad for her. Just trying to do her job, and of course, Clint had to intervene and mess everything up. He silently slipped out of the handcuffs and slid them across the floor to her.

"I'm keeping the gun," he called out.

"Just drop it off at my precinct later, okay? 25th," she called out, resigned.

"Will do." Natasha turned to leave, when Clint finally called out, "hey, want to get coffee later? Everything that happened here will be forgotten."

She struggled with her emotions for a second, then shrugged. Fuck it. She could handle herself. Plus, he didn't kill her. Always a plus. Who knows, maybe he'll pin her down again.

"Fuck it. What's your number?"

Clint smiled.

* * *

"So this is sushi," Steve said, staring astonished at the huge, immaculate white plate with a tiny sliver of raw fish sitting in the center. Tony grinned. He seemed to be doing that a lot.

"This is the best sushi in the world. Reservations are taken three weeks in advance, but you can't get in without booking a few years ahead."

"How'd you get in on such short notice?"

"I'm the owner."

"Oh."

"Go on, try it."

Steve gingerly picked up the fish with his chopsticks, a skill learned only through the mountains of Chinese takeout that comprised the majority of his diet, and ate it. He chewed or a few seconds, then swallowed, self-conscious with Tony watching his every move expectantly.

"So? How is it?"

He didn't want to hurt Tony's feelings. It was, after all, _his_ restaurant. But he hated the fish. It just… there's not much fish to hate.

"It's okay."

"Don't lie, I know it's horrible," Tony said, waving his hand, much to Steve's surprise. "I knew you'd hate it. Even I hate it. I'd be surprised if you liked it here. It's expensive and it's overrated. Come on, I'll take you somewhere else."

Tony flagged down another cab outside.

"West 45th and Park," he commanded.

* * *

He opened the door for Natasha, gesturing for her to enter. He had been a gentleman, picking her up at the precinct where she had been absolutely chewed out by Fury and struggled to keep calm, her hands a few seconds away from locking around his throat and squeezing.

He was good looking in a rugged sort of way, arms bound with muscle, hair cropped short, a strong jawline that didn't protrude, and a faint white scar running down his arm to the first knuckle of his index finger. He was dressed in a suit, but without a tie and with the first button of the dress shirt undone, on purpose, Natasha couldn't tell. From what she could see, though, he was absolutely spectacular. Tall, handsome, blonde, and polite. Even though he had attacked her in that warehouse. But hey, she started it. Natasha thumbed the smooth metal of the handcuffs, still tucked into her back pocket. She smiled. Maybe she'd get to use them later tonight.

"It's late. Decaf?"

"Caffeine has no effect on me."

"Plain black?"

She nodded.

"Two dark roast drip coffees. Room for cream?" He asked. She nodded again. "And room for cream on both," he dictated, handing over the exact charge to the cashier. There was one other person in the small shop, and he was passed out on the table, asleep, a book loosely held in his hand and precariously tipping over the edge of the table. He turned to lean on the counter, and Natasha could see how the tight fabric of the suit stretched over his chest as he smiled.

"I never got your name," Natasha prompted.

"Clint. Clint Barton."

"What do you do, Clint? In a warehouse—"

"Ah, that's forbidden territory," Clint warned, teasing smile on his mouth as the barista bustled behind him. "I'm… a consultant at an IT company."

"Liar."

"Am not."

"I have impeccable natural instinct. Try me," she challenged, a rare smile on her lips. She really liked Clint.

"Okay… I had a salad for breakfast."

"Lie."

"I am thirty-seven."

"True."

"I'm ticklish."

Natasha jabbed him lightly in the ribs, and he instinctively twitched.

"True," she grinned.

"I'm a great ballet dancer."

"True," she said again, her eyebrows arching up in surprise.

"All right, you got me. You really want to know what I do?" Natasha nodded. "Well, you're going to have to work for it," he leaned up to whispered into her ear, a playful grin on his lips. Natasha shuddered at the sound of his voice, low and guttural, his boot, propped up onto his knee, barely brushing against Natasha's leg.

The coffee slid across the counter as the barista wiped her hands, Clint stopping them off-handedly with one large hand before they flew off the table, not taking his eyes off Natasha and still with that playful smile tugging at his lips.

"Careful, they're really hot," the barista warned.

"It's fine," Clint said. "I can take a little heat."

* * *

So Steve really did like sushi.

Tony smiled to himself as Steve busied around the buffet, taking a bit of this, a little of that, until his plate teetered with low-quality but astoundingly delicious sushi. Tony had eaten a few pieces of raw fish, but found that he couldn't really stomach anything right now and resigned to watching Steve cram his mouth full with joint parts wasabi and sashimi, the choking flavor not bothering him at all.

The man could eat.

Tony watched, intrigued, as Steve drove through two, three, four plates of sushi, each one more exotic than the next. Only at the very end, with a stack of dirty plates beside him, did Steve demurely wipe his mouth and toss his napkin in the middle of the plate.

"Room for dessert?"

"No, probably not."

"You bottomless pit."

"I'm a stress eater."

"I can tell."

Tony felt the urge to take out his phone. Not because he bored of watching Steve, but simply out of habit. He slapped his hand inching towards his pocket away, and focused on the details of Steve.

Musculature? Insane.

Facial features? Divine.

Personality? Sweeter than cherry pie.

Background check?

Tony felt a conspicuous lack of a thought after this. Again, he knew next to nothing about what Steve did. His "odd jobs". Tony's gut told him that Steve didn't exactly operate in the sterile light of the law, but it also told him that Steve was safe, Steve was protection, Steve was someone who'd always be there. But he'd have to find out who Steve was, first.

Tony respected that everyone had secrets. He had a closet of skeletons so huge he'd need to build another tower to house them all. But some things are just too big to keep quiet.

"So Steve."

"Yeah," he responded, downing yet another glass of Coke.

"What kind of odd jobs do you do?"

"Oh… I, uh—I paint houses, sometimes. And I'm sometimes called in to manage construction sites."

"Okay. Anything else?"

Steve frowned and shook his head.

"That's about it."

"Interesting."

About twenty dozen red flags went off in Tony's head. He'd need more info.

"Listen," Tony said, turning up the seduction by about a thousand. He hated this kind of manipulation, and he knew that this was the only way he could deal with people, but this is what's best for both of them right now. "It's getting late. I've got a lot of work to finish, and…"

Tony let the sentence trail off as he subtly set his hand a bit closer to Steve's and shifted his leg so it touched him. Steve's jaw immediately ticked, and Tony could feel the restraint as he tried not to touch Tony, drawing back his fingers a little, but pressing against Tony's leg a little more. Hook, line, and sinker.

"Are you sure? You don't… you don't want to come back to my place for a little… wine? We can go over what you've found in more detail," he added, trying to take the lust out of the proposition. Tony glanced at the tiny bead of sweat gathering on his forehead. Now it's time to play hard to get.

"Yeah, it's just, really late," Tony said, checking his watch and yawning. He felt Steve's eyes wander over him, and when he finished the act, Tony saw Steve's tongue pressed up against his teeth, obviously trying and failing not to take Tony, right there and then. Tony grinned.

"See you tomorrow?"

"Come home with me," Steve growled, leaning in close. There was no threat in it, only pure lust. Tony could smell his aftershave, clean tones layered on top of musty ones. He didn't expect Steve to be this forward, but hey, if he offers, that's enough for Tony.

"Sorry, no can do. Work, I said already," Tony smiled, tossing down a fifty onto the table. "A huge pile of projects just waiting for me in the workshop—"

"Please," Steve begged, an iron vice gripping Tony's arm. He looked at Steve in surprise, the desperation and sadness and loneliness in his voice stabbing like a dagger through Tony's heart, a sudden departure from the velvety, rough desire not five seconds prior. "Please, Tony, I just want you to come home with me."

Tony sighed. This was taking an unexpected turn. Of course, his original intention was to get in Steve's pants (or maybe the other way around, Tony considered himself an expert at both), but Steve's tone suggested otherwise. He made a show of checking his watch.

"If you insist."

They shuffled out of the sushi buffet and into a hailed cab, Steve sliding in after Tony. Steve gave his address, sitting tense and upright, the space in between them conspicuous. Tony sighed, fingers pressed to his temple. Not even fifteen seconds in, and Tony knew this was going to be a long night, one way or another.

* * *

Clint groaned once more into Natasha's neck, the last few shudders of pleasure pulsing through him. She brushed his sweaty hair from his face, completely relaxed and satisfied, and smiled as she kissed his cheek.

"How was it?"

"Good. Really good. Best I've ever had," she admitted. Granted, she's had a lot of sex, but most of them… most of them didn't count. She was just doing the motions then. And besides, they weren't that big. Clint… Clint was absolutely _enormous_. The first time she saw it, she nearly cried in equal parts fear, respect, and lust.

"You were amazing also."

"But not the best."

"You were the first."

"What?"

Natasha looked at him in surprise. He smiled.

"Your lie detector's malfunctioning, as it seems."

She swatted him lightly about the head in annoyance as he grinned and rolled over, folding his arms behind his head, simply staring at Natasha. He could simply stare at her, the absolute perfection of her body running circles around his mind. She looked healthy, not emaciated, nor bulky, but simply healthy. Her chest was just the right size, not too large, not fake, nothing done there, and not small either, but just right. Her neck was that of a crane's, arcing beautifully and graceful, extending into soft collarbones and well-defined arms. She moved like a dancer, elegant, poised. She didn't look like a police officer.

Natasha rolled onto Clint, pecking him gently on the nose.

"I think I've bought your secret. Now tell me, who are you?"

Clint sighed.

"You didn't have sex just to find out who I was, did you?"

"I—"

"Figured. Don't worry, I've done it before, too. You really want to know?"

She nodded. "My name's Clint Barton, you know that already. I'm also known as 'Hawkeye,' and I am a ruthless killing machine. Am I lying?"

* * *

Tony had no expectations in mind when they pulled up to Steve's apartment. Over the course of their short time together, he's known Steve as a teacher, as someone's boss, a construction manager, and then he gave up altogether. He didn't know who Steve was anymore; and the answer lies waiting for him inside that apartment.

The cab ride had been long and awkward, at least in the beginning. And then Tony said something funny, and Steve barked a laugh, and soon they were back as they should be, not exactly touching, but close, easy friends again. Tony didn't know what made them tick, what kind of strange chemistry happened between them that drew them together. Tony was a controlling, cold man with a buttload of money and the insight the push the buttons of everyone around him. Steve… should be the opposite of that. Tony shuddered when he heard the _should_ in his mind.

Tony hadn't expected Steve to live in such a tall building, lobby and everything. He groaned inwardly; Steve's substitute teacher thing was looking less and less like a half-truth and more like a blatant lie. Steve opened the door, and Tony climbed out, handing the cash to the driver.

"Keep the change."

The doorman held the door open, and Tony entered, a lush lobby, but not one more lavish than the one of Stark Tower. That was grandeur, with the desire to impress in mind; this one was more intimate, subdued, less so big as it was personal. Little touches of color here and there, warm, oak panels, and chairs everywhere, not to mention a huge bulletin board with pictures tacked on, with everything from bar pictures to dogs to scenery shots and little happy captions by the tenants. Tony liked the place.

Steve pressed the elevator and tapped the sixth floor, out of a total of ten. The elevator ratcheted up, a little noisy, but still quite efficient. Tony saw at least fourteen engineering mistakes in the car alone.

"It's not much, but it's home," Steve said, as he unlocked the door to his apartment. Tony was blown away by what he saw.

"Everything's…"

"Yeah, sorry about that, it's a little quirk of mine. I can't stand it when it's not… like this."

The floors gleamed to a dazzling polish, the counters glinting perfect reflections of bright lights into Tony's eyes. The knick knacks on the shelves, old, Tony could see, but they looked absolutely mint. The air smelled like an enticing combination of cinnamon and coffee, a warm, soft smell complementing the feel of the apartment. Though it was astonishingly spotless, Steve's apartment felt well used and well-loved.

"It's immaculate."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. Even… even my place isn't like this," Tony admitted, and he prided himself on keeping Stark Tower entirely clean. He had the errant stain here and there, but this… this was near obsessive, if anything.

"Do you use slaves, or something?"

"No, no, I just… I have help, yeah, but it's just that I clean. A lot. It's calming."

"Hmm."

Tony swiped a finger on the back of the dark leather sofa, high quality stuff. He glanced at it. Not a speck of dust. He checked the walls. Nothing. Even the under the heated air swirling by the lights, Tony could only see a few dust motes dancing in midair.

"Coffee," Steve offered.

"We have to stop the whole coffee thing. I think I've had at least fifteen cups since I've met you. But yeah," Tony said. He glanced at Steve, busying himself in the kitchen, and he silently moved down the hallway.

* * *

Natasha quickly put on her clothes. She wasn't scared, no, not at all. Her training, definitely not from the police academy, gave her all the possible skills she could need. She glanced around her bathroom. Two knives hiding under the sink. A little bottle of arsenic in the medicine cabinet. A garrote where the floss should be. But she needed to act the part, too, act like she wasn't dangerous, that she was just some inexperienced police rookie who trembled when she fired a gun and cried when her fingernail chipped, like girls should be, she thought bitterly.

Clint came up behind her, having pulled his pair of pants on. Her hand tightened around the knife. He reached out towards her, and she prepared to slash a hole in his abdomen, letting him bleed out through the metatarsal…

He circled his arms around her shoulders slowly and pressed her close, resting his chin on her neck, staring at her reflection in the mirror. She looked the part; scared, with a little bit of manic behind her eyes. She always had looked a tiny bit crazy.

Natasha released the knife.

"You don't have to be scared of me."

"I'm not," she admitted. She could feel every line of muscle against her back, Clint's hard armor pressed to her spine, and she relaxed against his touch, letting him rouse her hair.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Because, Clint," she said, turning around. "I trust you, and you're a really nice guy. I don't think you'd hurt me."

Clint shrugged.

"I trust you, too."

"Why wouldn't you?"

"Because you have two seven-inchers hidden under that sink, a little bottle of arsenic disguised as mouthwash in the cabinet, a garrote in the floss, and a handgun in the hamper."

Natasha drew the knife, whipping it around, only to have Clint calmly step two feet back, safely out of reach, still entirely exposed, being shirtless.

"Calm down, calm down, I'm not here to hurt you, or capture you, or whatever," Clint soothed. He raised his hands up and smiled a lop-sided grin, tousled hair and all. Natasha breathed heavily, her hands not shaking, eyes glued to Clint's hands, not paying attention to his face.

"What do you want?"

"Nothing. I just came here to have sex with you, maybe start seeing around a little more often, you know, what most people do when they start a process known as dating, commonly onset in the mid-teens."

"Who are you?"

"Like I said, I'm a killing machine. I work for Captain Steve Rogers, New York mafia, and I'm his right hand man, also known as a lapdog. He points, I kill. Sometimes he does it himself, but most days, it's me. I also manage the day-to-day happenings of the mafia, I hate Italian cars, and _AFV _is my guilty pleasure. Well, it's everyone's guilty pleasure," Clint conceded, shrugging with his hands still in the air. "Alright, now your turn."

"I want you to get out, and I never want to see you again. Come back, and I will kill you," Natasha icily declared, her knife now moving up to Clint's neck. Clint backed one more step further, Natasha following suit, a feral snarl on her face.

"Hey, relax, let's just talk," Clint assuaged. "Come on, I just want to talk. You owe it to me, at least."

"I don't owe you anything."

"Actually, you do. That coffee isn't cheap, you know."

"Just get out."

"Natasha, please, I want to get to know you."

She felt her defenses weakening. Both of them knew what it was like, bathing in blood and drinking tears. And she liked him too much, this man with the rocking body and the easy smile, not a care in the world. She lowered the knife and threw it on the bathroom counter with a clatter. Clint immediately reached over, put his arm around her shoulder, and steered her to the bed, where he sat her down and pulled her in a tight embrace. Natasha felt the unexpected and dreadful urge to cry, something she's never done, not once in her life. It's said that she was born speechless and her mother died from fright. That's what they tell her. That's what she hears.

"I'm—My name is Natasha Romanoff. I'm Russian. I fulfill every Russian stereotype. I can shatter bricks with my pinky. I have the accent," she said, letting the slurs and the rolls of her mother language take over. She sniffled and wiped away a tear. God, what a fucking mess this whole thing was. "I love my country. I love the cold. I—I'm Russian intelligence."

"In the US? I thought this Cold War stuff was over."

She didn't know if she had the clearance to say this much, but she didn't care. She'd kill anyone they sent after her to shut her up, anyway.

"I'm running."

"From?"

"Everyone."

And Agent Romanoff began her sad story.

* * *

Tony pushed open the first door on the right. An office, with a simple desk sitting smack-dab in the center, no drawers, but a single small, black button. He didn't bother pressing it. A bookshelf climbed the ceiling from the floor, crammed full with old and new tomes alike, a series of encyclopedias crowning the wall at the very bottom. He didn't think Steve would hide anything in hollowed out books, but you think you know a man…

He closed the door silently.

"It'll just be another minute," Steve called out.

"Bathroom?"

"Down the hall, second to the right."

Tony opened the next door. Bathroom. Spotless, as always, and it smelled like lavender. Tony closed it. The next door revealed Steve's bedroom. For another time. Tony closed it.

He started down the left side. The first door had a keypad installed over the handle. Tony raised an eyebrow, and examined the underside, honing in on a tiny screw. He'd toy with that if he had time. He moved down the row. A linen closet, the bottom storing jars and jars of preserved food and cans, a box of ramen tucked into the corner. The other shelves were stacked high with sheets and blankets, neatly folded and arranged into an exact pattern. He closed the door. The next door was a guest bedroom, a clean and made full-size bed, blue sheets, and a stylish desk sitting by the window, the shades drawn. Tony could see a tiny scuff on the wall, the only blemish in the entire apartment. He bent down and viewed it more closely.

It was about the height of the bedframe, and close enough for it to be a reasonable cause. Something (or someone, Tony thought) jolted the bed rough enough for it to shove into the wall.

"How long have you had this place?" Tony called.

"Three years," Steve called back. "Almost done," he continued, but Tony ignored him. Not a moving accident; knowing Steve, he would've painted over it long before them. The scuff was strange. He'd ask later. Or find out himself.

Tony moved back to the bedroom and walked inside carefully. No floorboards creaked, the solid cherry floors gleaming bright with a matte glow, none of the gloss that Tony hated seeing. A huge bed, simple wooden, white-washed frame, and matching nightstands. A reclining chair faced the Samsung in the corner, not too modern, but the model was several years old, and it was thicker than TVs manufactured nowadays.

Tony peered inside the closet, the hinges squeaking slightly. Odd. He'd expect no sound. He rifled through Steve's dress shirts, khakis, jeans, slacks, jackets, t-shirts, and more, briefly going through the shoe rack tucked beneath the clothes and found nothing out of order. He made his way to the master bathroom.

Spanking clean. A hamper sat in the corner next to the marble bathtub, a three-tiered cabinet with one face removed. Clothes were folded into perfect rectangles and stacked, shirts with shirts, pants in the middle, and all others on the bottom. Tony looked through the first shirts. The first one was clean, a plain white t-shirt that looked a bit small to be on Steve. He'd like to see him in it. The next one was a dress shirt, also white, and covered in dark brown bloodstains, splattered across it like a mid-fifties art piece, a grotesque Rorschach test where along the creases where the shirt had been folded, not entirely dry.

"Coffee's done," an icy voice said from the doorway.


	4. Preghiera

**A/N: Okay, this piece is killing me. It's not rolling in a bunch of hits, so I don't know if I'm going to host it on anymore. It's on AO3 under "Keep Your Eyes Down" if any are interested, but FF is both too much of a hassle and not worth it. Not enough viewership.**

* * *

"I was born in Moscow. My mother died after having me. I was too much for her, and I was much too early. She died quickly and quietly, when she still could not feel pain during the emergency C-section. My father drank after, and he died quickly. A gunshot to his right temple. Self-inflicted. He loved my mother. Just not enough to love me. The state took me. Back in the Soviet days. At first, I tried to be a normal child. But I was violent. When other kids took from me, I hurt them, and some of them, I hurt bad. And the state noticed, they took me in, they trained me, so I hurt people even when they didn't take from me. I learned to kill at a very young age, Mr. Barton. Ten years old, and I had the blood of three people on my hands. I still remember their names."

Natasha stopped for breath, and Clint remained motionless, fixated on her.

"Continue, please."

"Twelve years old, I began my first mission. Easy extraction; be an assistant to a more trained agent, or a meat shield if necessary. I complied. He was a good teacher, ten years older than I was, skilled, quiet, and nothing untoward happened. I kept training under him, until he died in the field. I was sixteen.

"The next fifteen years, I did the motions. I went on missions, everywhere you could possibly imagine. I grew smart. And I grew discontent. The Soviet union collapsed; everything tumbled down around my shoulders, et cetera, et cetera. Nothing came to surprise me. I lost my sense of life. One that was never mine to keep anyway.

I had a husband for three years. His name was Ivan. He drank a lot, and at first, I liked him. I… I fell for him. I used to think that we were right for each other, but now I realize that I was naïve and stupid and didn't understand what pain was then. There are different kinds of pain, and now I can safely say I've been exposed to nearly every single one of them. When I wasn't on a mission, we had sex like rabbits. He was big, and I liked that. And when I was gone, he had his whores. It worked. And then I came back once, and he had had a lot to drink, and he tried to hit me, and I broke his arm, and he cursed, and tried to hit me again, and I killed him. I dumped his body, and no one ever questioned me about it."

She paused slightly to collect herself, about a hair from flying over the edge and losing coherence. She was teetering enough as it was.

"The Russians had grown lax. I still had my sense of country, that sense of dominance. Over the Americans. I didn't like the Americans, the British, or the Australians. Not just because of an ingrained and imprinted dislike for anything non-Russian, it's just… they're so inefficient. In Russia, a building rises in a month. In America, it takes… several years, at best. Look at the new World Trade building. Almost a decade in, and still not finished. I loved Russia, with my whole heart. But I had to leave it. It was a heartbreak, looking at the Soviet Union collapse, looking at the people drinking window cleaning fluid because they can't afford vodka, looking at the plastic beads filled with glue that they sold as caviar to scam some money. And I didn't get any missions anymore. Attitudes changed. No one needed an assassin. I was just an asset, useful one time only, like a firework. Burn bright, then fall back to the earth, where no one can find you, no one can see you. I ran away from Russia. They're looking for me, but they don't really care. It's nearly been a year, and no one has found me. I keep tabs on the investigation in Russia. All active resources being diverted to my repatriation has ceased and returned to normal resources five months ago. I ran here, I didn't bother to seek asylum, they'd turn me away anyway if they knew what I did.

"I got another husband here, about three months after I came here. His name was Robert. He hit me the first time we had sex. It was an accident. But the times after that weren't. The fourth time, he tied me up and he beat me, trying to make me his whore. And when I screamed and cut myself loose, he… he climaxed. I killed him, in cold blood, red coming from his neck and white from his cock. I'm sorry to have to unload this on you."

She stopped talking.

"The more you know…" Clint mused quietly.

"I like you, Clint, I really do," she said, shifting once more back into her Pacific Northwest accent. "And I don't want… I don't want any of us getting hurt."

"I know."

"I don't know if this is going to work out," she rasped, throat dry, and then laughed bitterly. "The odds—a Russian spy meets an American mafia killer and they…"

"They fell in love," Clint completed quietly.

* * *

Tony remained rooted to the spot, terror filling him as Steve set down the two mugs of coffee. The bloodstained dress shirt. The scuff on the wall. Tony's mind spun at a million miles, then collapsed as pure fear filled him. Steve's eyes were completely blue, icy, cold blue. Tony saw the eyes of a killer.

He plucked the shirt from Tony's hands and tossed it aside, standing directly in front of him, unsmiling. Tony closed his eyes, bracing for the bitter, freezing ice of a knife gently working its way into his stomach, the fire following afterwards. He could feel Steve's hands, the muscle-corded arms, looping around his neck softly, squeezing bit by bit until his vision went grey and his mind stopped working. He could feel the pummels, each one a dull thud of pain as Steve beat him into the wall, first his teeth, then his left eye, all falling down onto the ground.

Steve wrapped his arms around Tony and squeezed him tightly.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, as Tony's brain fired up again and he struggled against him. Steve let go instantly.

"Who—what… so what's this?" Tony rasped, holding up the shirt gingerly, as if it might dissolve in his hands.

"This… That was George Klaine."

"Who?"

"Arms smuggler. He ratted the Flushing operation out to the NYPD."

"What happened to him?"

Steve remained silent. "_What happened to George Klaine?_" Tony shouted.

"I asked him how much he knew. He didn't cooperate. I left while Clint… extracted information from him."

"Oh my fucking God, you tortured him to death, did you?"

"Clint…"

"Oh fuck, oh fuck," Tony said, pacing around the bathroom, his hands pressed to his head, desperation clear on his face as Steve looked on sadly. "What did I get myself into? Oh my God, oh God, please, please, don't kill me," Tony prayed, falling to his knees in front of Steve.

"Tony, Tony—get up. Come on, shh, it's okay," Steve reassured, a tear rolling down his cheek as well as he picked the sobbing Tony up from the ground and carried him over to the couch. "Look, I—"

"Is it the money? Is that why you spent so much time with me? Is that—oh God, is that why you killed Pryce," Tony asked, his eyes filling with fear at the revelation. "You fucking monster, you lured me in just so you could kill me," Tony started again, trying to scramble off the couch, but Steve pinned him down.

"Tony, Tony, listen—"

"I can call the cops hands free, my phone's programmed to do that, fucking Rogers, get the hell off me!"

"Shut up and listen to me!"

Steve's snarl stopped Tony's struggling and his mouth, but not the tears. Steve sat Tony up on the couch, while Tony's eyes darted around, looking for escape routes. Steve noted, with a grimace, that there weren't any. This wasn't looking good for him.

"Okay, okay, I'm listening."

"Tony, I've wanted to tell you this, but… I just didn't know when, or if you'd ever be ready. I was selfish; I tried to keep this for myself, thinking that we'd be better off if you just didn't know. I know, it looks bad, with Pryce and all that, but…"

"First, first, Steve, did you kill him?"

"Absolutely not."

Tony stared at Steve and nodded a few times to himself.

"Okay, okay, okay."

"But Tony, my number one goal is to keep you safe. I—I like you, Tony. I—I think I love you."

"Oh my God," Tony said, anger clouding his fear. "We've been on all of two dates, the first one ending in a man dying and the second one… this is the second one!"

"I know, just listen," Steve said. "I'm not interested in your money. I'm interested in _you_. You, Tony, are the best thing that has ever happened to me," Steve admitted.

Tony had stopped crying by now, but his ragged breathing hitched every other inhale. Steve gently wiped away a tear and felt his chest tighten when Tony flinched at the motion. Tony hated him. He could feel that now. "Please, Tony, I… I know I'm not making much sense right now. But let me just say this. I would never, ever let anything happen to you, much sooner than I would die. And I—Tony, listen—I would much rather cut off my own hand than use it to harm you in any way. Do you understand?"

Tony nodded, his eyes shut. Steve crouched there, in front of Tony for a long while before he spoke.

"You're the best thing that has ever happened to me, too," he said simply. His eyes remained shut. They stayed in that position for a long while, Tony sitting there on the couch, eyes shut, brows furrowed, with Steve kneeling on the ground in front of him, watching in anticipation. Only when Tony's breathing shifted and his head lulled did Steve realize that Tony had been asleep for quite a while. Steve lifted Tony up again, Tony being not much lighter than Steve but still weighing nothing in Steve's arms, and carried him to the guest bedroom. He gently took off Tony's suit, his fedora long forgotten in the master bathroom, and laid him down in the bed. Steve pulled the blankets up to Tony's chin, and with a moment's hesitation, kissed him lightly on the forehead.

He tilted his chin upwards, and kissed Steve right back.

"I—I don't want you to go."

* * *

Bright sunlight flashed across Tony's face. He smelt eggs and bacon, remembered where he was, and tried to go back to sleep again. Going home made no difference. Sleep… sleep meant ignorance. Ignorance meant happiness. Tony knew too much already.

"Hey."

Steve stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, in a dark grey t-shirt with ARMY printed across the front in block letters. He wore a pair of grey sweats, a tad shade darker than the t-shirt. Tony propped himself up, looking around the room, the blue guest room. He looked at Steve warily as he sat down at the desk, about two feet away from Tony.

"What's the scuff from?"

"What scuff?"

Tony pointed silently at the tiny white marking along the otherwise unbroken sea of blue. "That… Klaine was tied down to the bedposts here. About a week ago."

"Did he die here?"

Steve opened his mouth and closed it, no sound coming it. He nodded once, curtly. Tony scrambled out of the bed. It was comfortable and warm and soft and smelled like Steve, and he wanted to sleep forever in it while also wanting to burn it.

"I don't know… I don't know if I can do this."

"You don't have to. You can get up and leave whenever you want, and I'll never talk to you ever again, unless you, you know, you want to talk. And then I'd drop everything and run halfway around the world if that's where you are and that's what you want."

"You're not helping me make a fair choice."

"I'm not here to help you make a fair choice," Steve said, grinning.

Steve left the room abruptly and came back with a cup of coffee. "Don't worry, there's nothing in it other than caffeine."

Tony accepted it cautiously and sipped, setting it down on the table.

"Let me tell you what I think of the situation."

"I'm listening."

"First of all, I think you're fucking insane."

"Point taken."

"But I'm also fucking insane."

"Point also taken."

"I—what I want is to make this work. And I know that I will make this work, because the problem is literally with me and not you. You're no different from the Steve that I met four days ago. And that's a question I've pondered my entire life—will a person change if you find out something about them? No, you're the same Steve, but I'm a different Tony. Sorry if I'm babbling, but… do you get that?"

Steve nodded, looking down at his hands. He wasn't quite sure where Tony was going with this, but he trusted Tony.

"I'm… I'll admit that I'm scared, Steve. I'm scared because now I know that you have the capacity to _hurt_. Before, you were a substitute teacher.

"I still am a substitute teacher, Tony."

"A substitute teacher that runs half of the illegal operations in the city, yeah. That makes you a little different in my eyes than just a regular sub. And I—what I'm really scared about is me. I infuriate people, Steve," Tony admitted, taking another sip of coffee, his eyes dark and serious. "I make people mad. I can't help it. I manipulate people and when they find out, which they usually don't until I've done my deed, they get so mad they want to _hurt me_. I've been hurt before, Steve. And I'm no stranger to pain, but… but I don't know how mad I can make you before you… before you hurt me. And I don't—I don't know if I can survive that. Literally, you are going to kill me."

"Tony," Steve reassured, placing his hand on Tony's shoulder. "You—we're going to have hard times, really hard times given… our strange lives. You're a man worth billions of dollars, one of the richest on earth. You run a giant company, you're smart, and you're ruthless. That's how you got there. Tony—I'm the same, if you think about it. I have over three billion dollars of capital moving around at any given time. My mob is my business. And I'm smart, smart enough to avoid a takeover, and I'm ruthless."

"But I'm not that all the time," Tony said. "I'm not always… always manipulating, I'm not always the CEO. I wasn't Tony Stark, Stark Industries when I met you at City Hall. I was Tony Stark, dashing, anonymous, and hot as hell."

"Tony, was I Captain Rogers at the City Hall? No, I was Mr. Rogers—stop smirking, I hear it, too—I was Mr. Rogers, a seventh grade art substitute, and I just had to come in on field trip day."

Steve smiled crookedly, blue eyes shimmering. Tony still saw that they were ice cold, colder than any possible winter, far below freezing, and probably would always be, but he saw the fire in winter, the warm hearth with the hot chocolate and the family gathered around, happy, while the storm rages around them, ice shards flying in the air. Their little island of peace, in that sea of dangerous anger, Tony could see.

"I would never lay a single finger on you, Tony."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Rogers."

* * *

Tony scrubbed the grease off the plate and maneuvered it into a gap between cups in the dishwasher, still slightly buzzed with adrenaline. He was in the house of a killer. A mafia boss. But an insanely hot one at that.

God, how did he get here?

Tony pushed that thought back and focused on figuring out Steve's dishwasher. It was fairly new, about five years old, and looked simple enough, but Tony couldn't figure it out. He looked on the top, inside, everywhere, but couldn't find the 'on' button.

"Steve, how does your dishwasher work?" He hollered.

"What?" Steve hollered back from his bedroom.

"Where's the 'on' button?"

"Just close the dishwasher! It starts on its own!"

Tony shut the door and sure enough, a soft whirring began as the water sprayed out, boiling hot, onto the plates. Steve appeared in the doorway, having just showered, his hair still a bit damp and his shirt off, only a towel wrapped around his waist.

"What are you doing?" Tony asked, frozen. Steve grinned.

"Two can play at this game."

"You're making this very difficult."

"How so?"

"First of all, I hate to admit this, but you being… who you are is doing wonders to my libido. And second of all… we've never had sex. Which is killing me right now."

Steve looked taken aback. "I've been through hell with you, and we've never had sex. Usually, I take both pills at once," Tony admitted.

"So… what are you suggesting?"

Tony struggled with himself for the next statement.

"I want to wait," he finally said. "I want our first time in bed to be… mindblowingly awesome. I don't want it to be some quickie thing."

"Oh. Okay. So… how long are we planning on waiting?"

Tony noticed the _we_, and he replayed it over and over in his mind. _We_. Tony and Steve. That sounded nice, slick on his tongue, and a little bit dangerous at the same time. A thought slipped through his brain, a quick dart that intrigued him, and he chased after it, grasping it by its tail, and he was astonished by what he found. Tony swallowed the thought down, keeping it close at hand. _Tony and Steve…_

"I was thinking this Saturday. In three days. I know that's a long time, I know, and it's a lot for me to ask, but I'm going… I'm going to have to ask you from jerking off in between then. Is that too much for you, or should—"

"No, no, that's fine," Steve quickly replied, blushing heavily. "I don't do it much anyway."

"God, you jerking off, what a sight. I'd like to see that someday," Tony grinned. "And—just to get this out of the way… do you mind if I'm on the receiving end?"

"I'm… I'll go both ways."

"Oh, you're killing me. You can't be any more perfect than you are already, but you're proving me wrong at every turn."

Steve cocked his head slightly in puzzlement as Tony shouldered past him to collect his things. Just last night, he'd been kicking and screaming. Steve honestly thought Tony was going to try to kill him. And now… this. Something must've happened. He'll ask Tony later on what he thought.

ASDF

"Thanks for… for everything," Natasha said as Clint pulled her up to the precinct. She noted with amusement that he was driving a Ferrari.

"I hate this car," he grumbled, smacking the wheel with both hands and honking inadvertently. And old lady down the street toppled over at the noise and screeched loudly. "Shit. See? It hates me, too. Fuck you, Ferrari. Fucking Ferrari. Yeah, well, I'll key your sides later, how'd you like that?

Natasha laughed, a genuine one. "I'll talk to you later?"

"Maybe."

"Eh, good enough for me."

Clint waved to her, grinning through his shades, and pulled away. Natasha watched him round the corner. She took a deep breath and walked into the square building, made chilly by air conditioning.

"Morning, Tash."

"Harry. How's…"

"He's making the rounds."

"Again?"

Harry nodded glumly. "Does he know that basically every single person in this precinct hates him with a vengeance?"

"Probably."

Natasha heard Fury yelling at the intern, then turning to yell at the copy machine, and finally yelling at the coffeemaker. He ended the show by kicking a stack of paper and jamming his toe, cursing like a twelve-year-old and hopping around. Everyone stifled a laugh. Nick Fury sure lived up to his name. He finished his big show, and turned his one good eye onto Natasha, the eye narrowing considerably in equal parts hate, frustration, and of course, anger.

"Romanoff! Office, now!"

She complied, biting her tongue.

Fury's office smelled like old cigarette butts, alcohol, and tears, the first two of which are illegal inside the precinct. Natasha considered filing a report, but decided against it. Too much of a hassle. Besides, all Fury would get was a small notice and a strict email. Although… anything could set him off nowadays.

"Officer Fury."

"_Special_ Officer Fury," he corrected. Natasha bit her tongue again. He was not a Special Officer, his rank was an Officer. Unless he suddenly jumped branches, he was not a Special Officer.

"_Special_ Officer Fury," she spat.

"Your performance yesterday was dismal."

"I'm sorry, was there any possible—"

"You let him get away!"

"As far as I'm concerned, he—"

"He's trespassing on a police crime scene—"

"It was no longer a crime scene," Natasha seethed hotly. She regarded Fury with disdain in her eyes. "I filed the paperwork yesterday. It's not a crime scene. The fact that you had me investigate private property without a warrant can be considered search and seizure, Special Officer. I highly suggest you review what can be considered an ethical grey area and what is actually set, in the Constitution, in black and white!"

She had trumped him. He sat there, speechless.

"You let him go, Romanoff—"

"I didn't _let_ him go, Special Officer, he got the better of me. I don't know what that guy was on, but he pinned me down with my own handcuffs, boot on my back, and took my gun, and then let me walk free. I chose not to take my chances. I know that my gun was discovered this morning not two blocks from here. I'm not going to press charges. The man did not harm me other than a few bruises and a minor scrape. It's too much of a hassle to file. He didn't not take police property, seeing as the gun was returned. Whether or not the owner of the warehouse chooses to file for any missing property is up to him or her. I have a stack of paperwork sitting by my desk, so if you don't mind, _Officer_," she said, with relish, "I'm going to start actual work now."

"I… We can still get him with interfering with a police investigation."

Natasha didn't say a word. She regarded him and his one good eye for a long time. At first, she saw only the glazed over look of one serving for too long, and when she looked deeper… she saw blazing intelligence, a clockwork mind, whirring faster and faster. She couldn't understand him. Such a bright man, locked behind years of pushing papers and bitterness. Natasha tossed her badge onto his desk and let the door slam behind her.

* * *

"I don't want to deal with the whole Pryce-Purcell thing right now."

"Good idea."

"So what do you want to do?"

They were strolling in the park a few blocks from Steve's apartment, near the lunch hour, the sun hot and bright and New York like a huge stove. Hot dog stands, ice cream trucks, vendors with every kind of soda imaginable lined up on the streets. Tony swigged from a Coke he got a few minutes ago, the familiar bottle ice cold and sweating.

"Shade over there." Tony pointed out. "I need to talk to you."

They sat down, a little closer together than any non-couple would be but still within the reasonable limits of friendliness. Steve recognized Tony's unwillingness to be caught in another controversy, especially that last one with the Colombian woman. Or who claimed to be a woman. She had really strong cheekbones. And a beard.

Steve held up a finger.

"Before you start, I just want to ask, what's with the about-face?"

"Meaning?"

"I seriously thought you were going to kill me yesterday. And this morning you're doing my dishes. What… what changed?"

"I was actually just about to talk to you about that. I have a deal."

"What?"

"A deal. Not really, not really a deal, but an agreement. Or a gift. Or a liability. It's an option, really. Not quite both, but—"

"You're blathering."

"Sorry. I want in."

"What?"

Steve was surprised. Tony looked around nonchalantly, pretending to be enjoying the nice, if not a bit unbearably hot weather.

"Your mafia gets on my payroll."

"What's the catch?"

"Well, first of all, you'd be _on my payroll_. That in itself is risky. If you get caught, I go down in flames. Also, it'd mean that you stop being independent. Of course, the only resistance you'd be getting from Stark Industries is me, none of that board of directors shit, but I won't be much of a problem. Even if… if things don't work out between us, trust me, I'd still do whatever it takes to keep your… your arrangement afloat."

"Wait a sec. You're saying… the reason you're okay with—with me is because you want to dabble in crime?"

"No, no, I'm just saying…"

Tony sighed. He didn't know how to phrase this. "This is pure business. This morning, I woke up, and I thought about it a little bit, and I realized that you, and what you do, is really no different than what I do. I cut down people at their knees, only instead of blood, they hemorrhage money and reputation. And that… that similarity just made me feel better about you. And this deal is just an extension of that; why not partner up?"

Steve nodded, still a bit uncertain. But it made sense. Stark Industries didn't need mob protection, and he didn't need Tony's money. Tony was just trying to tie them closer together, forcing them to trust each other. It was weird and Steve felt a bit… twisted, but he understood it.

"O—Okay…? And what's the other catch?"

"That's it."

Steve inspected Tony's face carefully. For the first time, he only realized how blue Tony's eyes were. So very, very blue. Steve knew that he had blue eyes, but Tony's were staggeringly deep, intelligent, and… yes, there was that signature ice in there. Oh God. Tony was becoming him.

"No, no, I can't do this to you?"

"What?"

"I can't… I can't let you make me make you in my image. I'm a bad egg, Tony."

"And that's where you're wrong. You're just me outside of the law. You're a scrappy Tony Stark. And I'm just a goody two shoes version of you, ironically."

"There's something else. There's another reason why you want in. Tell me."

"It's—it's embarrassing."

"Tell me."

"I—I want to spend more time with you."

"Aww."

"Shut up."

Tony swatted at Steve head. It connected solidly, but didn't hurt at all. Steve chuckled. "At least this way, I can show up with your mob buddies around and it wouldn't be weird. They'd hate me, of course, but they couldn't use me against you. I'm safe. I'm the one that writes their checks. And without me, they don't get paid."

"First of all, that reasoning shows that you don't get the first thing about running the largest underground crime syndicate in the world," Steve teased. "I write my own checks. It's why we pull jobs in the first place. The money we take is the money we get. We don't need another suit rolling us."

"So…"

"Tony, we don't need the funds. I'm successful. Again, three billion dollars in liquidation. Everyone the mob ends up happy… at least financially."

"Dammit. I thought you'd fall for that one," Tony smirked. Steve laughed. Tony took the plunge, leaning up against Steve's shoulder, and Steve instinctively checked around for bugs, snoopers, snipers, barneys, anything that seemed out of place. He saw one of his own men, made eye contact, shook his head minutely, and the guy blended into the crowd.

* * *

Clint drove down the West Side Highway and got off near Trump Place. He checked the address and the room Steve texted him that morning, slung his duffel back over his shoulder, and exited the car.

He checked over his shoulder and pulled down his baseball cap, holding the bill down to avoid any cameras from catching anything more than his chin. Clint tapped the elevator to the top floor and heard the quiet whirring as car slid down.

He stepped inside, dug in his pocket for a key card, swiped it, and waited. Nothing happened. He swiped it again. Nothing happened still. He checked the key card.

'Safeway Select card', dammit.

Clint punched button panel in frustration after he couldn't find the key card anywhere. He heard a sickening crunch, and a searing pain shoot up his right arm. Fuck, shit, dammity-damn, fucking shit.

* * *

"Hey, I heard about what happened. You good?"

"Yeah, fine, totally, just broke about three bones, and all of them pretty essential. No more jerking off for a week."

"Sorry."

"Not your fault. Dammit, where was that key card? I thought I had it in my pocket."

"Take the next few days off. I'll run this town. You've been driving for quite a while now, Barton. A well-deserved vacation."

"But no more jerking off. So it's not really a vacation."

"Shut up."

"What? Oh come on, it's not like you don't do it."

"I stopped by your place. Card's sitting on the counter. You moron."

"Hey, Clint, do you still need to get in? I can get you to the top floor."

"Is that Tony? Steve, hand the phone over."

"Why?"

"Just do it, please."

"Hello, Clint."

"Hi, Tony. I'm Clint, I don't think we've introduced properly."

"Yeah, hi, I'm Tony Stark."

"I know who you are."

"They all do."

"Tony. I just have to say one thing to you, before you and Steve start getting serious."

"Shoot."

"Don't hold back. Knowing what Steve does is probably terrifying, and if I were in your position, I'd be shitting my pants every time he looks at me. Man, he has those fucking blue eyes. But, from what I hear about you, and the way he talks about you, Tony, he can tell that whatever he does, everything he does, actually, is going to be sure that you remain safe, that you remain happy, and he's going to _anything _and _everything _in his power to do so. And he has a _lot_ of power. Do you understand?

"Yup."

"So don't think about trying to not piss him off or anything, because you'd just make him madder than he'd already be. He expects you to treat him like… like a human being, not some primed grenade, you hear? He'd never, ever hurt you. And hey, if Steve won't hurt you, I could never hurt you. Got that? We're brothers now, Tony. I don't hurt a brother. We clear?"

"Nice to hear it coming from you, Clint. And yeah, I'm planning to go all out when it comes to Captain Rogers."

"You sound devious. Have you guys had sex yet?"

"Nope."

"Oh God."

"Exactly."

"How long are you guys planning on waiting?"

"You'll be able to tell. He'll have a limp."

"Stop talking."

"Am I freaking you out?"

"Fuck yeah. Have fun, kiddos."

"We're both older than you."

"Keep thinking that."

* * *

"Hi."

"Hi."

Natasha looked down at her feet, a box in her hands, all the stuff from her desk. She packed what little personal belongings she had at the office, just a small picture frame holding a faded picture of her parents, unsmiling but watching all the same, and a delicate golden watch that she's worn for as long as she can remember, and a few passing knickknacks here and there. She'd throw them out soon.

"Want some coffee?"

Clint wore a threadbare t-shirt, the logo long scratched off, the purple now patches of pink. A heavy cast wrapped around his arm, turning it into a white club. A one-use instakill.

"Sure. What happened?"

"I got angry and punched a metal wall."

"You sound like a bright one."

"Thanks. I needed that."

He poured a cup of coffee for Natasha and slid it across the counter. She stopped it before it fell off the edge.

"I quit my job."

"Stormed out?"

"Yup."

"How'd it feel?"

"Great at first, then bad. Then terrifying."

"Sounds about right."

"Do you speak Russian?"

"A little. I can't write much or read."

"Can you understand me now?"

"Yes."

"God, I'm getting rusty."

"What's that last word?"

"Rusty."

"Thanks. Do you want to…"

"No, your arm's broken. I don't want to snap it in two."

"It's not my arm, it's my hand."

"Same thing."

"And for that, no more Russian."

"Dammit!"

* * *

The door opened to the eighty-third floor, Tony's penthouse, reserved for special guests. He's only ever brought two other people into this room; Pepper Potts, and the President. Let's just say that any details leaking out of that incident would involve both the Pentagon and would be the single most lucrative video on the Internet since Paris Hilton. Tony froze in place, eyes quickly scanning over the apartment. Something was wrong.

"Hey, something wrong?" Steve asked, seeing the expression on Tony's face.

"I don't—I don't know." He puzzled over the nagging feeling tugging at his stomach.

"Tony, what's going on?" Steve tucked his hand inside his coat, hand closing familiarly around the butt of a Sig Sauer.

"Something's—something's not right."

"Stay behind me."

Steve prowled forward, remaining close to the ground, ready to block any stray bullets. He always wore Kevlar, but a good point blank round and he was done for. They both were done for. And Steve felt sudden rage, blind, helpless rage. This was a mafia problem. And now it had become Tony's problem.

"Where is he?"

"Who?"

"The—the intruder," Steve growled.

"I—JARVIS, are there any others on this floor?"

"There are. One other person."

A map flashed up before Steve, shrank, and folded directly over his eye, projecting onto the floor in front of him. He'd marvel at later. Right now, he felt only the urge to kill.

"Here, protect our rear," Steve said, handing Tony another gun, a smaller pistol this time. Capable of putting a clean round through someone, but not enough to tear a huge hole. "You know how to shoot a gun?"

"Please."

He clicked off the safety and steadied his right hand, holding the gun out in front of him, back to back with Steve.

"Follow me," Steve commanded, and Tony followed, moving backwards while Steve moved forwards, seeing two grouped red dots in the hallway, with another yellow dot not twenty feet away.

The dot grew closer, and Steve could hear footsteps. They inched forward, keeping flush with the curve of the wall, careful of any bullet muzzles peeking around the curve that spelt certain death for them. Ten feet away. Steve clicked the safety off.

Five feet away. Steve stopped moving, Tony stopping as well, both ratcheted high with adrenaline. Steve leapt forward, tackling the man to the ground, thrashing, as Tony grabbed Steve's gun in the accident that it'd go off. They struggled on the ground for a bit, Tony getting a few good punches on the other guy's body, but he still kicked around like a fish out of water. Steve kneed him once in the crotch, hard, a low blow, but he didn't care. Anything for Tony.

Steve stood up, panting, seeing the man on the ground, face covered with a ski mask, writhing and squealing in pain. He was big, quite big, not quite as tall as Steve but more than Tony, and well-built, closer to Tony's physique than Steve or Clint's, his hair cropped short and tight, close to his scalp, military-style. Steve ripped off the ski mask. The man's sharp features can into relief. They were harsh, strong, and European, with a sharply defined nose and uncompromising mouth. They were too hard, too sharp, too pointy. Tony felt like they could cut diamonds, the way the features sliced up his face.

And running down his neck was a thick twisted white scar, looking exactly like a security wire.


	5. Leggiero

**A/N: So, I'm only uploading this out of convenience for upload to AO3. Enjoy!**

* * *

"Go for Clint.

"I need you in Manhattan, right now."

"Boss, I'm in the middle—"

"I don't care. You have fifteen minutes."

"I thought I had a few days off."

"You're going to have the rest of your life off if you don't haul ass."

Clint sighed, and glanced at Natasha, curled into an upright ball on the couch, knees drawn to her chest, a blanket covering her, watching TV.

"Where are you?" He asked, resigned.

"Stark Tower."

Rogers hung up, his voice low and strained. Clint could tell he was trying to keep from shouting.

"What's going on?" Natasha asked, having overheard the conversation.

"I—my boss wants me to come in."

"Even with your broken hand?"

Clint shrugged.

"I've had worse."

"Are—are you going to go?"

"Not much of a choice. You staying here?"

"I won't trash your place."

"Never crossed my mind."

"I can take care of myself, Clint."

"I know you can. But you can come with me, if you want."

"Why would I? Would he mind?"

"I want you to meet him. He's kind of… stressed out right now, we have a little incident on our hands, and maybe you could help, I don't know. He wouldn't care that much. Come on, let's go."

"Are you going to take the Ferrari?"

"Fucking Ferrari."

* * *

Tony poured yet another cup of coffee. Really, he's never had this much coffee in such a short time period. This was his seventh cup today, and it was like, ten in the morning.

Steve came out of the elevator, tucking his phone into his pocket. Tony offered him a mug. Steve accepted it gratefully.

"How you holding up?"

"The better question is, how are you?"

Steve glanced at Tony.

"I'm angry."

"I know."

"I'm angry at myself for dragging you into this whole thing. How did he get in here, anyway?"

"I'm doing maintenance," Tony explained, with his brow furrowed, "but even then, it shouldn't be too much of a problem. I have blind traps and random algorithms at every turn. I still don't know how he got in, and JARVIS won't respond, no matter how much I prod him. It's like he was on lockdown, but just… locking the guy inside. But not, because we still got in without a single problem. But anyway, I'll figure it out later. The only—anyway," Tony stopped, looking up at Steve, somewhere in the middle of a thought. "Steve," Tony started. "You shouldn't—shouldn't be mad at yourself, okay? I've. I've been selfish. I've just said things I wanted, how I was afraid of you, stupid stuff like that, but you've never told me what you want of me. Because right now, I'm being that needy girlfriend that's clingy and gross, and I don't want to be that, and I know that just by saying this I'm even more clingy and needy and gross, but please, I'd really like to hear what you'd want… from me."

"I—Tony, you're perfect in every way," Steve said, smiling. "I don't have any conditions or want you to make any promises. And besides, I don't think you could hurt me even if you tried."

"I'm not that much smaller than you. But seriously, there's got to be something. I have a ton of baggage, just pick one, come on."

"Uh… okay, um… I don't want you sleeping around when I'm around. Or I'll… I don't know, yell at you."

Tony stared at Steve, expressionless. Then he burst into laughter.

"You've got to be kidding me. That was _the most_ weak-ass dating negotiation I've ever heard."

"What? What's wrong with it?"

"Of all the things you choose… you chose one of my most redundant vices, oh my God," Tony laughed, leaning his head against Steve's shoulder. "I couldn't whore around if I tried. You're too much for me as it is. And even if you absolutely tank in bed, and I've had some pretty bad fucks… I can still get off just by looking at you."

"Spare me the details."

"Oh, but the details are important. Especially when we have a very eventful weekend coming up. I suggest clearing your schedule."

"Through when?"

Tony sucked through his teeth, grimacing and feigning indecision.

"I'd say… through Monday at the earliest. I have a list, you know."

"Christ."

* * *

Clint looked around in the lobby, the huge arches and the sweeping elegance of it all blowing him away. And he thought Rogers had a nice place. But this was just a little out of his pay grade.

Natasha turned down his offer, preferring instead to watch _Tom and Jerry_ reruns. He would be sitting there also, laughing with sadistic mirth as Jerry mercilessly clubbed Tom into the ground or pushed him into an oven with a smile and a squeak. Clint shuddered. _Tom and Jerry_ was actually such a terrible kids' show.

"I'm here for… for Tony Stark," he told the receptionist, his trusty duffle bag over his shoulder. The guy, shrimpy and scrawny and greasy-looking, just sneered at Clint. _Excuse you_.

"Of course, you can go right up to Mr. Stark's private suite. Mr. Stark, one of the richest men on Earth, would love to see… _you_. You need an appointment, _sir_, if you're going to want to see Mr. Stark," he crooned, drawling out every single syllable. Clint hated his condescension. He took a note of his nameplate. _Craig Reynolds_.

"Okay. Hey, Craig, how long have you been working here?"

"Fourteen years," he gloated. Clint couldn't wait to yank that pedestal beneath him. "And where do you work?"

"I'm a drifter."

"Oh. One of… those."

Oh my God, are you fucking kidding?

"Excuse me?"

Whoops, must have said that aloud. Clint walked away and flipped open his phone.

"Rogers."

"Some dickhead," Clint said, just loud enough for Craig-fucking-Reynolds to hear, and Clint saw his eye twitch as he struggled to pretend not to have noticed, "won't let me come up. What floor are you guys on?"

"Right now… oh, we're on the eighty-third. Here, just a second. Let me get Tony on."

A bit of rustling as Rogers handed the phone to Tony.

"Hey, Clint. What's his name?"

"Craig Reynolds. How do I get up?"

"Just hand the phone to the guy."

"What? No. I'm pretty sure that guy has like, cooties, or something—"

"Fuck, then just put it on speaker!"

Clint tapped the speakerphone button and walked up the counter, an overly sweet smile on his face. He placed the phone in front of Craig, who looked up lazily, disdain written all over his face. Clint wanted to stuff him into a duck press. "Hello," Tony said simply.

"To whom do I have the _pleasure_ of speaking?"

"You're right, Clint, he is kind of a dickwad," Tony pointed out.

"Dickhead," Clint corrected.

"That's right, dickhead."

"Excuse me—"

"Yes, excuse _you_. Do you know who you're talking to?"

"No."

"I'm the one that signs your paychecks."

"Oh—" Clint watched with unholy satisfaction as the color drained from Craig's face and his knuckles turned white, his fingernails gripping himself. "Is this—"

"Yup. Sorry man, you're fired. F-I-R-E-D, fired. You're fired!"

Tony topped it off by turning on the PA system in the lobby.

_Attention all, this is Tony Stark speaking. Can everyone locate Craig Reynolds? He looks kind of dick-y, yeah that's one. Yeah, he's fired. Everyone say bye!_

The lobby was quiet for a second. Then the other receptionists, all sitting in a long row behind the gleaming black counter, matching uniforms, stood up, cheered, and clapped. Some even fell to their knees in triumph, tears streaming from their eyes. Seems like a lot of people thought Craig was a dickhead.

_Oh, and Craig? Everyone knows you hide the scones you swipe from the lounge in your desk drawer._

* * *

"Thanks for making a scene."

Tony spread his arms wide and grinned, the very image of magnanimity.

"I couldn't resist. I've been hearing rumors about a receptionist so terrible that even the GMs can't fire him. Nice to finally meet you properly, Clint."

"Pleasure's mine."

"There's an intruder in a holing room down in the basement. I need your help with him," Rogers stated, all business.

"Why can't you have Tony do it?"

Rogers stared at Clint like he was crazy while Tony idly flicked lint from his suit.

"I don't think I'd be very good at it."

"No, Tony's not going anywhere near that guy. Clint, you're coming with me."

"This is a two-man job?" Clint whined. He wanted to go home. "I don't—okay, okay, I'll go," he added, hearing Steve crack a knuckle. "Still don't see why you need me here."

They squeezed into the elevator; Steve and Tony huddled in a corner together while Clint stood on the opposite wall.

"So what do you do, Clint?"

"Other than… running the entire mafia while Steve is out fucking you, which is about… always? Nothing. This is a fulltime job."

"You're also his lapdog."

Clint shrugged.

"Basically. He points, I kill."

"Do you work out? Those arms are killing me."

"I shoot. Recreationally. And professionally."

"Hell of a recoil."

"It's a bow."

"Oh."

Clint smiled brightly. He liked Tony. He could see them getting a beer together. Maybe after this whole mess.

The elevator slowed, the doors sliding open to reveal a scene right out of CSI. A small viewing room looking through one-way mirror into a concrete holding cell, the walls left bare concrete with a mesa growing into a flat, rectangular table in the middle. Little eyebolts jutted from the walls and the table, with two plain metal chairs sitting next to the table, one occupied. Clint recognized the man, blond and with sizeable bulk, but only vaguely, having only glanced at him as he staunched Pryce's wounds. His mouth twitched at the memory of Pryce as he tried to slip into that blank mindset, the uncaring one that he used whenever Rogers had him do something like this, so he wouldn't think about what he was doing, or to whom he was doing it to. But it didn't come this time. A different sort of numb fell over him, with the pulsing of white-cold anger behind it, seeing the man's relaxed posture, as if he didn't care that he killed one of Clint's best men, as if he didn't care that Clint would drag him to his personal hell and back.

"Let's fuck him up."

* * *

"If you ever want us to stop, just say so, or you can turn away, it's your choice, no one will laugh at you. This is not what… what normal people do."

"It took me ten years to get over the nightmares," Clint offered. Tony glared at him.

"Thanks for helping."

"I'll try to make this as… as clean as possible, okay?"

"Yeah," Clint scoffed. "No promises."

"Tony," Steve said, one more time, hands on his shoulders. "Remember, you don't have to watch this. We know what questions to ask, okay? If you ever want to just leave, leave. We can't see you anyway."

"I'm staying."

"Tony…"

"I can handle this. I've seen worse."

"I doubt you have," Clint said, rifling through his duffle bag. Dammit, where's the screwdriver?

"Okay, we're going in. And remember, this is all just business. I would never even think of doing this to you, got that? I love you, Tony," he smiled, a bit of sadness behind it. Tony nodded.

"I know."

"Let's go."

Clint pulled open the heavy door and held it open for Steve, who carried in the duffle bag. He slipped in after him, and closed the door, thumbs-up at the mirror. The man just sat there, smirking. Clint stood by the door, arms folded over his chest, trying to look menacing. It would've been terrifying if Tony was on the receiving end, but he couldn't stifle a laugh at Clint's ridiculous face.

"You have two options. You roll, or we hurt you," Steve explained. He sat down opposite the shooter. He leaned forward, still smirking, arms at the edge of his table, and opened his mouth.

"You're going to have to work for it, babe."

Tony felt a flash of anger pulse through him at the words, but he calmed himself down. It was just a mental play, nothing worse. Steve didn't look away, just stared at the man with those icy eyes of his.

"Let's go with E8, Barton."

Clint unzipped the duffle bag and went straight for the Taser.

It's been five hours.

Tony understood what true torture was.

It was fascinating.

They hadn't even started it. But they had.

Clint and Steve lounged by the door, simply watching as the man broke down, bit by bit. At first, he was confident, sneering, all bravado. After one and a half hours, his sly smile had disappeared. By two hours, he had pissed his pants. And he was whimpering now, his eyes darting around, scared and helpless. But he still hadn't rolled.

They weren't doing anything, just standing there, watching him.

Clint checked his watch and yawned loudly.

Steve had explained what they were doing when setting up. They had bound the man to the table, the ropes crisscrossing in an impossible pattern. Clint held up a Taser.

"You've probably seen one of these before. It's a Taser, in case you haven't. This here? This little bulge? Yeah, it's a radio receiver. Connected to this remote," Steve explained, holding up a tiny garage opener. He depressed it, and the Taser sparked briefly, the sinister clicking echoing through the room. "50,000 volts, surging right through you. And I'm just going to set it right here," Steve grinned, a diabolical smile as he placed the Taser right up against the man's crotch. He twitched involuntarily, grunting as Clint looped the rope around him one more time, holding him down as he struggled, Steve making sure the Taser remained in solid contact with the man. Clint finished with a blindfold and earplugs. Sensory deprivation with anticipation thrown in. Absolute genius. "When this goes off, you'll turn into a vegetable. Or you'll feel pain so intense you'll pass out for two hours at least. Depends how long I press this button. I could tap it, or I can hold it down and watch your heart stop. And have fun fucking anyone ever again with that new charred cock. Either way, I don't care what happens to you. You do, however, have a chance of walking out of here, dick intact, and able to have kids still. Just start talking and I take the Taser away, okay bud? Good boy."

Steve opened the door, holding it for Clint, and closed it behind him. He counted three seconds, and then opened it again, as if he forgot something. "By the way, I forgot to mention, the remote control also sends out random pulses every while or so. I have no idea when it could go off."

And now, five hours later, the remote control sitting inside the duffel bag, Steve showing no intention of using it.

Psychological torture.

Tony's job description.

"Can I go?"

"No."

"Why though? The guy's not rolling. Just kill him."

Steve's hard-set jaw twitched.

"No."

"Dude, come on, I have someone waiting at home."

"Really? Hard to believe."

"That was low. Her name's by the way Natasha, and she's crashing at my place."

"What does she do?"

"Ex-police officer."

"Yikes."

Clint shrugged.

"She's really a Russian agent running from the motherland."

"Are you kidding me?"

"Nope."

"Go home, Clint, we're good here."

"Thanks, boss."

Clint tapped the elevator button and stuck his hand in between the doors as it was sliding shut.

"Oh, want me to take the bag?"

"Sure."

Steve tossed him the duffle bag, which clunked down the ground with a resounding _thunk_, the car shaking. It must've weight a hundred pounds, easy. And Steve threw it one-handed, no effort at all. God, Tony couldn't wait until Saturday.

"My name's Nathan Ruben!"

"Ugh, finally, I'm dying here," Tony groaned, relieved. "So… what do we do?"

"Nothing. We wait for more information."

Silence for about three minutes. The man squirmed against his bonds, trying to get away from the Taser pressed against his balls, sanity quickly slipping between his fingers. He screamed loudly, shaking, not a single muscle in his body able to move more than a centimeter from where Clint bound him to the table. Clint did a good job with that, despite his hand. He pitifully wailed, non-stop, the steady tone biting into Tony's skin, an unearthly and inhuman scream of a man broken by a little black remote control. Steve looked on, steely, arms flexed over his chest, staring at him through the mirror.

"I work—I work for… for Stark!"

Ah, fuck.

* * *

Clint drove home quickly, wheels screeching as he rounded corner after corner a bit too fast. Police officers knew to ignore him, and he never got into a car accident. Well, at least a major one. That fender bender was not his fault, that old lady in front of him was just driving so jerkily. Okay, so maybe it was a little bit his fault, but he still didn't deserve that two grand fine and the repair.

He pulled up along the curb to his brownstone, a nice, 1940's building that has remained relatively undamaged through the years. Elegant on the outside, and modern on the inside. He loved it. Clint fondly remembered buying out all the other tenants and the landlord and plowing down the walls with a sledgehammer. The house that Barton built. He should get that framed.

He knocked on the door, and heard soft footsteps. Natasha unlocked it, hairbrush in hand, her hair wrapped in a towel—his towel—in a bathrobe—his bathrobe. He needed to talk to her about what's hers and what's his. They don't overlap. Generally.

"Hello."

"You're using my towel."

"Yes."

"And my bathrobe."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I don't have mine. I felt like a shower."

"So you decided that you were going to use my towel and my bathrobe? What else did you use? My shampoo? God, you're disgusting," he smirked, shouldering past her. He felt the hairbrush connect solidly with the back of his head.

"That's mine," she huffed, and stomped into the kitchen.

"What are you making?" Clint inquired, smelling the food in the air.

"Chicken ravioli with cilantro. You a cilantro person?"

"No."

"Too bad. Eat it and like it."

She plated the ravioli and handed him a plate, a large helping compared to hers.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

"Are you going to be staying here for a while?"

"Why would I? You've been to my place."

"Yeah, but… I don't know, I like having you around."

"If you want. I can let go of that place, too. Too much for my… nonexistent paycheck."

"That's right, you quit."

"Thanks for bringing it up."

"Pleasure's mine. Mm, this is good. Where'd you learn to do this?"

"I had an extended mission in Florence. Three months posing as a waitress in a dingy restaurant. It was dirty and smelled bad, but damn, they could cook."

"Nice. I can tell. You belong in the kitchen."

"I'm going to take that as a compliment."

"If you want to."

"Can I be honest with you?"

"You're already using my bathrobe."

"I—I don't allow myself to get close to people," Natasha admitted, picking at her own ravioli. "This is already so far from my comfort zone I can't see the shore anymore."

"That's fine. We had sex once. It was fun. I'm not looking for a relationship, but if you want to have one, I'm not complaining."

"Okay. Thanks, by the way."

"For what?"

"I'm not quite sure yet."

* * *

Banner handed the clerk a twenty. The bell jangled as another man came in, black raincoat dripping wet from the rain. He took his change from the cashier, ripped open the top of the packaging of beef jerky with his teeth, and chewed as he stepped out into the inclement weather. He shoved the pack of cigarettes inside his jacket.

Rain buffeted him from horizontally as he forced his way, squinting, to his car. Holding the jerky stick in his mouth and tucking the six-pack under his arm, Bruce braved the wind and the rain and with ice-cold fingers, unlocked the door to his truck, the driver side on the lee side. He tossed the beer on the passenger seat, bit off another bite of jerky, and ignited the engine, first turning the heat all the way up and watched his breath condense into vapor.

It was still too cold. Banner dug in his pocket for his gloves and pulled them on, old things, a relic from the eighties, well worn with unintentional holes at the fingertips from use. He pulled out of the empty parking lot, windshield wipers clocking top speed but still not enough, the rain hailing down like a row of drum majors pounding away at the snare. Banner took it slowly down the highway, visibility down to zero with the amount of water splashing over the window, the back window completely clouded over with condensation. He drove until the rain subsided, just a heavy deluge now, the thunderclaps now dull bass drum accents and the lightning flashes just a shimmer in the air, and pushed the speed to seventy, blasting down the road.

Banner drove for about two hours and exited the freeway into a small rest stop. The thunderstorm steamrolled along behind him now, the skies overhead light grey and drizzling, not coffee black and with the rivers of heaven flowing through open floodgates. He eased into a parking spot between two SUVs and cut the engine, getting out and using the bathroom. He checked his watch and tossed the wrapper from the beef jerky.

He got back on the highway and drove until well past midnight, only pulling into a motel in some small town named Bennettsville, somewhere in Indiana. Banner stopped at a motel.

"Room. Please."

"Just you?"

Banner nodded. He looked around the small lobby as he waited for the lady to finish typing. A rack in the corner with Indiana tourism brochures, two chairs in the corner with a round sitting table in between, and generic abstract art in lithographs on the walls. "Smoking or non-smoking?"

"Doesn't matter."

"How many nights?"

"One."

"That'd be fifty dollars even."

He handed her a wrinkled fifty and accepted the room key without another word. Banner grabbed his backpack from under the passenger seat along with the six pack and locked the door, the alarm chirping twice.

Banner unlocked the motel room with some difficulty, eventually shouldering the door open. It was a non-smoking. He set his backpack on the bed and got to work on the beer. With a bottle in one hand, Banner clicked on the TV and scrolled through the channels to the local news, watched the forecast while chipping away at the beer, and stopped paying attention after the sports ended and the commercials came on. The only thing of note in Bennettsville, it seemed, was the high school football team that made it to semi-finals.

Banner flipped open his laptop, setting the empty beer bottle on the nightstand. He clicked a lighter and lit a cigarette and blew it out two lungfuls of smoke at the ceiling. There was no ashtray. Banner tapped the end of the cigarette on the metal base of the lamp.

He logged into the complimentary Wi-Fi. Banner checked his email. Spam. Spam. Useful. Spam. Useful. Interesting. Spam. Spam. Spam. He opened the interesting one. It was from the DoD. So spam, then. Banner noticed the sender email address and blacklisted it. Then he deleted his email account and made a new one, committing the username and password to memory. Banner shut his laptop, slipped it into the backpack, and pulled out his toothbrush. He showered, brushed his teeth, and pulled on a fresh pair of underwear, lighting another cigarette while he changed. He turned off the light and smoked two more cigarettes before falling asleep.


	6. Pesante

**A/N: Happy Fourth to my rapidly diminishing readership! Hey, it'd do me a favor if you guys would rec me, sorry for the request, but I've dropped from over 2.6k per update to about one hundred. A little signal boost would be _greatly_ appreciated (and if you do so, I may or may not dedicate the next upload to you, just saying). And guys, guys, it's Saturday night. SATURDAY NIGHT.**

* * *

Banner woke up at half-past five, same as he does every day. He quickly pulled on a pair of pants and a t-shirt, topping it off with a faded duster. His mouth felt dry. Banner shoved a smoke in his mouth but didn't light it. Slinging his backpack over his shoulder and pulling a cap down over his eyes, Banner left the motel room, door slightly open to air out the smoke. He hiked across the treacherous terrain of the parking lot to his truck, the day just starting to turn blue, and pulled out of the parking lot, onto Main Street, from Main Street onto the highway.

* * *

"What the hell's going on?"

"I—I don't know," Tony stuttered, stunned. He glanced at the man inside the holding cell, whimpering pitifully. "I don't know why—why that happened."

"Right now, Tony, I have one guy under torture who said _your name_ when I asked who ordered him to kill one of my best bootleggers. His moonshine was fucking _amazing_. Now don't get me wrong," he yelled, "I didn't know Pryce all that well, but I knew what he did for me, and I liked him, so you better have a goddamn good story, Tony, because if this gets out, I can't save you from the backlash this is going to cause, I can't do that, and I can't let this slide either."

Tony looked down, playing with his cufflinks, while his mind raced a million miles, trying to cover all his bases, trying to get everything in order, a wrench thrown in the fragile system, trying to rebalance with a planet knocked out of its stable orbit around the star.

"I'm sorry, this is my fault," he apologized. Steve scoffed.

"What happened, Tony? How the hell… I know you're a genius and all, but what the hell? How could—you didn't even know me! Or what I did! How could—" Steve sighed. He knew he wasn't making much sense, but none of this made any sense either.

"Look, can we just… can I just say I'm sorry?"

"I don't—I don't even know what's going on here, so if you're the whole mastermind behind this fucking mess, I'd like to be a little more in the loop here!"

"I—I killed Pryce so I could spend more time with you…?"

Steve raised both eyebrows.

"If you think, for a single second, that I'm buying that…"

"It's not—"

"Tony, I need to know what's going on. Why did that guy say your name?"

"N—like I said. I… I saw you, asked JARVIS to research you after I went home, and then killed Pryce so you'd spend more time with me."

Silence filled the room except for the ignored keening coming from the holding cell. Tony looked at the ground still, fingers doing and undoing the cufflinks, over and over again. Steve knew he was hiding something. Protecting something. Something he didn't quite want to share yet.

"Let's go upstairs," Steve said, a bit more gently. He led Tony into the elevator, picking up the duffle bag. Before the doors slid shut, Steve silently thumbed the black remote in his pocket and held the central button down for a good three seconds. The screaming stopped.

* * *

"If you want to keep staying here, you need to do that more often," Clint breathed into Natasha's breasts. She sighed and rolled off him, loopy smiles plastered over both their faces.

"I had no idea that would happen," Natasha breathed.

"Well, it did, and I'm proud of it."

"You're so loud."

"Pardon me, Miss Profanity."

"Whatever," Natasha smirked, sliding out of bed and dragging all the sheets off Clint, much to his indignation.

"Hey, I'm cold!"

"So am I."

"My apartment, my sheets, give them back."

"Ladies first."

"That's not fair."

"Life's not fair you overgrown man-bitch. I'm making coffee," Natasha called, walking into the kitchen with the sheets pulled up to her chest.

"Don't step on them, they're nice sheets!"

"God, you're such a woman."

* * *

"I'll send someone to clean it up."

"I got it. My tower, I'll deal with cleanup."

They sat at Tony's kitchen counter, Steve opposite Tony, both not quite looking each other in the eye. Steve's brain teetered like a top nearing the end of its run; how could Tony be behind this? Tony, who barely knew him when Pryce was shot, Tony, who has spent the last four days running around with Steve trying himself to get to the bottom of this, how could he do this? Steve didn't mean for it to sound so accusing, but just… in what conceivable way would it even _feasible_ for Tony to do something like this? Steve knew the situation was spinning out of control, a thousand different variables that only Tony could probably keep track of. And now he had no idea who Tony really was anymore. "You have a lot of questions."

"And you haven't given me any answers. We ran around in circles down there."

Tony sighed. He looked up at Steve.

"This is something I'm not going to answer."

"And… I'm—what?"

"Steve. What did that man say to you, down in that basement?"

"That he worked… that he worked for you."

"Right, so he works for me, that means _I _killed Pryce, _I _led you on a wild goose chase, you have a right to be mad at _me_, and here's my exposed cheek free for the slapping. Can we move on?"

"No, I don't think we can."

"Please don't make this difficult."

"Me? Making this difficult?"

Tony sat back in his chair. Steve was still utterly confused. The man in the basement _said_ he worked for Tony. _Tony_ said he worked for Tony. So why was he playing hard-to-get? Pryce could be replaced, and Purcell was just hired muscle. They were assets, maybe acquaintances, but Steve could always get others to do their jobs. Tony would be doing himself a huge favor by just fessing up. Wait, what? But Tony did fess up… Steve's mind tripped over itself and tied into knots trying to sort this out.

"I still don't get who did it."

"I did it."

"But you didn't."

"But I did."

"No, you didn't."

Tony stared right at Steve.

"For me, Steve, please, _please_, just accept that I did it, and forgive me for it."

"Okay, first of all, _you didn't do it_—and just listen," he cut off when Tony opened his mouth to protest again, "I'm not going to forgive you for it even if you did because I need a solid reason that you did it. You have been with me for four, five days now, and we've rarely left each other's side, and you've been trying to get to the bottom of this with me. Second, you had absolutely no reason to kill Pryce or Purcell, and even if it was to spend more time with me, you had no idea that I was going to as a result of that. Non-sequitur. So now I have two questions. Why did that man say your name, and who actually killed Pryce and Purcell?"

"I don't need a solid reason. I'm a billion-dollar genius. I'm eccentric. Maybe I just like seeing people die in strange ways. That answers both."

"You were just as confused as I was when you saw the autopsy."

"I'm a very convincing actor."

"Tony, for God's sake, stop it!"

Steve stood up, breathing heavily. Tony stood up as well, and now both of them were shouting. "I have _no clue_ what's going on, and you're not helping either!"

"I can't tell you what's going on, because I don't know!"

"You do know, 'cause you're acting all smug and sly here!"

"Just let me say I did it then—"

"But you didn't do—"

"It's not in _my power_ to tell you—"

"—And you were freaking out over _me _not telling _you _I was a mob boss—"

"—Steve, just let me take the bullet—"

"_For who, Tony, for who_?"

The noise stopped, both men breathing heavily. Steve let his hand drop with the question still hanging in the air, five fat words clogging up the space, making it hard to inhale. Steve felt his anger subside at Tony's desolate face, desperation clouding his handsome features. He looked trapped, scared, and frenzied. "I have a right to know, Pryce and Purcell were my men," Steve croaked. Tony closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, Steve saw what warmth and softness in the blue disappear, replaced by the hardness and stubbornness that he saw in himself.

"Certain things are better left untouched, Steve. Certain rocks should never be turned over, and you don't want to see the ants or the spiders or the cockroaches underneath, the creepy crawly things in the dank places no one goes. I didn't know that before, but as soon as I heard _my name _come from the shooter's mouth, I—I know who killed your men. And I will tell you, Steve, I already told you that I would tell you. But right now, I'm not at a place where I safely can, and _we're_ not a place where it won't affect our… our relationship, so please bear with me I'm dealing with it, okay? I don't need you stepping in, I have my own way of dealing with whatever happened, because now this Pryce-Purcell thing concerns _me_ more than it concerns _you._ Again, I'll tell you, sooner rather than later, what's going on. But not right now.

"But—"

"One other thing, before I really have to go, I have a meeting," Tony said, checking the clock. He walked around the counter, and stood right in front of Steve, eyes still hard, but smiling with a bit of warmth left. He placed his hands on Steve's shoulders, and Steve suddenly felt very small, as if Tony stood ten feet tall and looked down at Steve from a pedestal a thousand miles high. "You're smart, Steve. One of the smartest people I know. Most people are dumb. But you're not. You got to where you are not by being ignorant, but because you're fucking smart."

Tony straightened Steve's tie, still staring at him. "But you're always going to be second place. Because there is one other person that will always be smarter than you. One person that will always be able to run you around in circles, force you to your knees, beg, crawl, sob, weep, _pray_, because he's smarter than you. He'll always be five steps ahead of you, watching you from every angle possible, every single move you make absolutely exposed to him, because you couldn't possibly hide it from him. Because he's smarter than you. And he'll make you run that race, chasing your own tail, not telling light from dark, running into hellfire, blind, deaf, senseless, simply because he's smarter than you. Do you know who that person is?"

Steve swallowed. The hairs on the nape of his neck stood up involuntarily, a stray shudder moving through him. Tony lead in close, his blue eyes piercing through Steve in an unwavering stare.

"No."

"That person is me."

* * *

Banner. She called to him in his sleep. Her dead eyes. Her cold lips. Coming to claim him. He sat up in cold sweat, in the darkness of his empty hotel room, the other twin-sized bed empty and staring and accusing and he hated it so much, the way it mocked him, the empty bed. Banner leaned back against the headboard, counting to fifty, then to one hundred as he let his fear and rage pass. He felt around in the dark for his pack of cigarettes and swore when he felt an empty carton. He needed a cigarette, now more than ever.

Banner sat up, ran his hand through his hair, and flipped on the lamp. He grabbed his pair of jeans, tugged them on while holding onto his jacket, and left the room, being sure to grab his backpack in case he couldn't come back. Banner unlocked the car door, lips already tingling without the familiar feel of a thin paper tube between them, and quickly started the engine.

He scoured the town until he found a 24-hour convenience store. He stepped inside, brightly lit with fluorescent lighting, right up to the cashier. He pointed at the huge 12-pack, not wanting to risk running out again, and silently handed the teenager the money. He looked down at the glass counter and immediately looked back up again, the sight disorienting him, the man glancing down with a three-day stubble, sleep-starved eyes and a dangerous look about him. Maybe this is what he was nowadays.

The road called out to him, warning him of the dangers of idle feet, the sirens close behind, the thrill of pushing ninety in a rickety old truck. Banner ignored the call and slipped back into his room at the inn, hungrily ripping open the plastic wrapping around the pack of cigarettes and groping around in his pocket for his lighter. He slipped one into his mouth, lit the end, and dragged deeply, holding the nicotine-laden smoke in for a good ten seconds, then blew out again, not much left to blow. Banner smiled. Smoke all he want, he could still run a mile in five and a half minutes flat. He did that last week. No matter how hard he tried, his body never seemed to want to destroy itself.

He crossed into New York State the next day. Banner kept driving down the main highway, more and more cars joining him as he approached a city then slowly diminished as they dissipated into the suburbs. He peeled back the plastic wrap a bit more and got another pack of smokes ready. This one was running low.

* * *

Natasha tossed bread, milk, and eggs into her basket, and seeing the rest of Clint's list on the backside, got a cart instead, leaving the basket by the checkout. She picked up apples, pears, peaches, nectarines, broccoli, tomatoes, an eggplant, chives, shallots, cabbage, and a radish, buying organic when the option was available. She picked up yogurt, vanilla-flavored, and grabbed a carton of granola. She hauled two large packs of flour onto rack on the cart along with a smaller bag of rice and another of sugar. Chewing her tongue, she also grabbed the brown sugar and the cinnamon. She felt like cookies. With that in mind, Natasha rolled her way to the baking supplies and grabbed some chocolate chips and a box of unsalted butter. She snatched Cheerios on the way to the checkout, her cart piled high with groceries.

"Find everything okay?"

"Yeah."

"Do you have a card?"

Natasha punched in Clint's phone number at the keypad. It seemed to go through and the price dropped a few dollars. The cashier smiled. "I really like your hair."

"Thank you."

"How'd you get that bun to stay? It never seems to work for me."

"You have to do it right after you shower."

"Oh, okay. I've always done it after I dry my hair, so maybe that's why it won't work. Good to know. It's a beautiful color. One hundred fifty-seven ninety-four, cash or credit?"

"Cash," Natasha said again, getting annoyed. She paid in bills. She hated compliments. They made her feel exposed.

"Do you need help with those bags?"

"No."

Natasha rolled the cart into the parking lot and loaded them into the backseat of Clint's Ferrari, and shoved the cart into the nearest holding pen. She climbed into the front seat, started the engine, and pulled out onto the main road. Her cell phone buzzed and she checked the caller wearily.

"Hi Tash."

"Why are you calling?"

"Did you get the milk?"

"Yeah."

"Two percent?"

"Yes."

"Good."

Clint hung up. Such a strange person. She made a left, then a right, and pulled up to the curb. She knocked on the door. Clint opened immediately, made a beeline for the car, and dug through the plastic bags until he found the cereal and the milk, and went right back inside, leaving the rest of the groceries untouched.

"Hey, help me with the bags!"

"I'm busy!"

"You're making cereal!"

"That's busy!"

"Get back out here or I will kick your ass so hard you'll shit shoelaces for a month, Barton!" She hollered, storming indoors, two bags of flours in hand. He was thirty-six and still acted like a first grader. Natasha had half a mind to lob them at Clint, but held back in fear of him refusing the clean up the resulting mess and her having to do it instead.

"I'm busy," he repeated, whining as he spooned mouthful after mouthful of cereal into his mouth, reading an article on his tablet, still in his pajamas even though it was high noon. Natasha felt her face turn as red as her hair.

"That's it, I'm kicking you out!"

"You can't kick me out, I'm the tenant!"

"I do everything around here except sign the checks!"

"You have no job, by the way."

"Ugh! You son of a bitch!" She huffed, dropping both bags of flour, making little white clouds rise into the air as a result. "I come here looking for a bit of moral support because I fucking _opened up to you_ and I just quit my charade of a job, and maybe a bit of desperate end-of-the-world sex on the side, and what do I get? A mid-30's _manchild_ that seems incapable of doing anything other than complaining, sleeping, and eating!" She raged, stomping out the door, continuing her charade as she hauled in bag after bag of groceries. "You're socially incompetent, not to mention infuriating as _fuck_, you can't cook, I _clean your clothes for you_, and how long has it been since you washed your Ferrari?"

"Don't mention the Fucking Ferrari!"

"I will mention the Fucking Ferrari, and you need to wash the goddamn thing, it's caked in an inch of dirt!"

"The Fucking Ferrari deserves it!"

"_It's a Fucking Ferrari_!"

"I'm not going to stand around and watch you boss me around like you do everything around here—"

"Excuse me, I _do_ do everything around here—"

"Every day I come home from a hard day of work just to hear _your_ attitude—"

"Well, maybe I wouldn't have so much _a-tti-tude_ if you moved your fat ass—"

"It's _the_ Fucking Ferrari, excuse you—"

"—With your stupid _socks_ fucking _everywhere_—"

"Go to your room!" Clint hollered, pointing towards Natasha's slightly ajar door, spooning yet another mouthful of Cheerios into his mouth.

"But—"

"Go to your room, young lady, and think about what you've said tonight!"

"It's lunchtime."

"And not one more word from you, you're grounded for eternity!"

Natasha stared at Clint. Then she grumbled as she went to her room and slammed the door.

"You're so fucking weird! And I hate you!"

* * *

Saturday rolled around with both of them in a bad mood. Tony couldn't find his crimson tie that he wanted for the ThyssenKrupp deal conference and he didn't want to go in the first place.

"Pepper, I'm not going. I hate ThyssenKrupp."

"They are an extremely reputable company that profits more zeros than you have fingers. We have leverage, and believe it or not, if you actually tried, you could milk them dry. Plus, it would do you good to make deals with something that's not a porn studio."

"That hurt."

"It was meant to. Wear that bespoke, the one… which London one was it?"

"Shadow-striped, dark grey-blue, pleats?"

"Yes. And use the crimson tie."

"We think so much alike. In fact, we think so much alike that you are entirely capable of—"

"Third floor at three-thirty, if you're late, I will impale you with my four-inches."

"That would hurt."

"It would be meant to. Oh, and don't forget the dinner at seven-thirty."

"That's today? Oh, shit, Pepper—did you put Steve on the list?

"Yes, I did."

"And can I invite one more person? Or two, for that matter," Tony added, remembering Clint's fuck-buddy.

On the other hand, Steve drove over to the Stark Tower after a morning of deliberation and mindless household chores, mainly scrubbing down the floors again and doing laundry (he took care to scrub all the bloodstains off this time). It was still a bit icy between them, given what happened, but Tony still leaned into his touch and smiled at his appearance for lunch. But then Tony started noticing Steve's slow eating and sideways glances, and finally set down his fork.

"Okay, fine, what do you want?"

"You know what I want."

"A blowjob?" Tony fished, hopeful that Steve would let it drop. "Because I give a very noisy—"

"You know what I want," Steve repeated again.

"Look, certain things I want to keep private. For now, at least."

"I told you my secret."

"I _found out_ your secret."

"Semantics. And also, this involves me."

"I know that."

He looked down at his hands.

"Tomorrow, okay? I just… I just have to get through today with you, and then we can deal with tomorrow. I forgot that we have a dinner party to attend tonight, that I'm actually supposed to be hosting. We're keeping our whole… our relationship hush-hush, right?"

"That I can do."

"But that's something I don't get. You need to stay in the background. You're sitting at the top of New York's biggest organized crime organization. So… why date me?"

"Why did I date you? Even when I recognized you at first sight, and you're both New York's biggest playboy as well as the most visible one?"

Tony nodded, but frowned. Steve shrugged, looking down.

"You're surrounded by paparazzi nonstop. Someone's bound to notice us by now, and when it comes out, we'll both be in deep shit, the head of a corporation dating a mafia boss and vice versa. You'll be panned universally, and I'll probably be shaken from my throne."

"Why would you want that, though? I mean, I'm used to it, being surrounded by cameras, but you make a living by staying in the shadows."

Steve beamed.

"I'm hiding in plain sight, you know. The NYPD still has no idea who's in charge of the whole operation. No one has seen my face up until this point. When I appear at meetings, I'm always Clint's muscle. He's my mouthpiece. Everyone thinks Clint's sitting at the top. At least, most people."

"Wait, so you're that shady puppetmaster that all the rookie detectives try to ride?"

"Yup, that's me. Steve Rogers, gangster extraordinaire, putting myself up in the limelight in the gamble of a lifetime. But Tony, I didn't date you just for the spotlight. In fact, I didn't date you for the spotlight at all. I picked you up because… well, I don't know. I'll probably never know, Tony, but it doesn't matter, does it? All that I know is that… I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I'm sorry if I'm coming on a little strong," Steve acknowledged as Tony tried to talk, "But if you want me to tell you why I want to be with you, that's—that's a question I won't and will never be able to answer. And screw the consequences, I don't care if I end up in Sing Sing, it doesn't really matter if you're going to be waiting out here. Is that… is that good enough?"

Tony frowned.

"I thought you were going to say money, looks, and cock, but that's good, too. But come on, you think I couldn't get you out of any prison anywhere? You could be chained to the President and I'd still get you right back here," he promised, filling up Steve's glass of water.

"I don't doubt that."

* * *

Sirens wailed behind him as Banner slammed down on the brakes. Fuck. He pulled over to the side of the road, the phantom itch coming back to his lips. He stuck another smoke in. Someday he'd kick that habit, but not today.

He rolled down the window as the officer walked over.

"You're going at ninety miles an hour on a seventy-marked section."

"There's absolutely no one else on the highway."

"Doesn't matter."

"Don't tell me you wouldn't do the same."

"Not at ninety."

He scribbled a ticket and handed it to Banner, going through the usual court mumbo-jumbo, insurance, driver's license, all that, and then heading back to his trooper car and driving off. Banner stared at the small sheet for a long time before folding it carefully and tucking it into his breast pocket.

Banner kept a watch on his speed as he passed through Buffalo. He stopped for coffee and to piss. He got gas and went in for a car wash, then rolled back onto the Interstate and continued.

* * *

"No, go away, I don't want to talk to you," Natasha said, lying on her back in bed, responding to Clint's knock on the door. He opened anyway, having changed into a sharp suit, combed his hair, and shaved. He looked quite nice, to say the least. "What's the big deal?"

"I'm taking you out to dinner."

"I don't want you to take me out to dinner."

"Come on. This is my way of saying sorry."

"You could've just said sorry."

"But this way, I get to eat."

"Let me change."

Natasha slipped into one of her cocktail dresses, a flirty red thing with an asymmetrical neckline that she got a few years ago in Belarus. It felt a bit loose around the sides. She's been losing weight.

"Ready?"

"Yup. But help me with the necklace?"

Clint deftly hooked the chain together while Natasha lifted her hair up. She wrapped it into a bun quickly and snatched her matching heels, stomping into them outside the apartment door, in Clint's footsteps. They climbed into the Ferrari, Clint whistling.

"It's nice today."

"It is."

"I should do more around the apartment."

"I should stop being a bitch."

"Deal?"

"Deal. Where are we headed?"

"Tony's place."

"Tony…"

"Tony Stark."

Natasha raised an eyebrow.

"_The _Tony Stark?"

"Yup. Steve's fucking him. Well, not yet. But soon."

"Steve… your boss? The gangster boss?"

"Yup."

"What the hell? New York's two most powerful men, in bed?"

"I know, I thought the same thing."

"We're eating at the Stark Tower?"

"I hear they have a killer salad."

They spent the next half hour in traffic. Clint used the underground parking for the employees and parked close to the entrance. It was about seven at night, so most of the Stark workers had gone home. They got out, Natasha's heels clacking loudly to the elevator. Clint tapped the button marked with an L. Same lobby as before, without the sassy receptionist from hell.

"I'm here for Tony Stark. Dinner party."

"Invitation?"

"I never got one on paper."

"I can give him a call."

The receptionist dialed the hotline. Clint liked her better than Craig. In fact, he liked anyone better than Craig.

"Hi, Mr. Stark? There's a man here to see you for your dinner party." Tony said something, too quiet for Clint to eavesdrop on, but he could tell from the receptionist's sudden fluster and blush that it was something unexpected. "I—I can't tell, Mr. Stark. I—yes, yes, he does seem to be. Alright, I'll send him up."

"What did he ask you?"

"He—he asked if a man with really nice arms showed up."

Clint was in a good mood as he rode up the elevator.

"Stop flexing your arms, asshole, you look like an idiot," Natasha said.

* * *

Pepper had invited a few of Tony's "friends" to try to get him to be sociable. It's been a while since he's been to one of these things, much less hosted one, and he felt a bit out of it. Of course, he's Tony Stark, and naturally he was charming and dashing and a magnet of attention, but he found himself tripping over his tongue sometimes, much more often than usual. Tony made it a point long ago to never forget a face and the name that went with it, but God, everyone aged so much. He remembered the guests vaguely, of course, elegant women with million-dollar hairdos and an eternal frown who are pale from starvation, just to fit into that razor-thin evening gown, and men with somber faces with a graying and shrinking head of hair, the smell of sleaze rolling out of their pores like honey, raucous girls in inappropriate dresses and impossible breasts clinging to their arms and their bank accounts. The only other person within five years of his age was Steve.

He saw Steve making the rounds, introducing himself without any help from Tony. Tony noticed with amusement that he said he was a substitute teacher. Which always prompted the raised eyebrow and the condescending stare and the ensuing shark's smile from Steve. He pulled Steve aside after circling back around, scanning the crowd while talking into Steve's ear.

"You're a people person. Why didn't I notice that you were a people person?"

"It's one of the job requirements. I talk with words, not guns, you know. Most of the time."

"So no more 'shoot first, ask questions later?'"

"Well, you should ask first questions first, but with a gun to their head. Or their balls."

"You should know most of these people. The upper circle, the elite of the elite. These people have their meals made in front of them, flown around the world, sent to Australia and then imported back."

"Some of them. I've extorted quite a lot of money from quite a few."

"They recognize you?"

"Chain of command. Plus, why would you show a face to somewhere you're going to destroy?"

"I love it when you're brutal."

"You're going to love it tonight, then."

Steve winked without much of a smile and slipped away again, drink in hand, having spotted Clint and Natasha, looking very out of place by the elevator and ready to sprint away at any moment.

"Hey boss."

"Nice of you to make it. You're Natasha then? Pleased to meet you," Steve said, kissing Natasha' hand with a little bow. She accepted it graciously and glared at Clint.

"See? Your boss does things like this. Why can't you do things like this?"

"Ah, shut it."

"Anyway, pleasure's all mine. How do you deal with him? He's absolutely impossible," Natasha sighed. Steve laughed.

"He's better at work than at play, then."

"If by play you mean fucking, then absolutely."

"Well, that was just rude," Clint interjected, indignant at the pass at his sexual prowess. "I am perfectly fine in bed, as you so loudly proclaimed last night."

"Ah, shut it," Natasha said, repeating Clint's earlier comment. She smiled at Steve. "I'll see you around."

"Of course, Agent Romanoff."

Her eyes opened wide, her mouth slightly agape.

"You told him?" She hissed, as Clint led her away.

"I tell him everything," Clint justified, as they moved out of earshot. Steve finished the rest of his scotch and set the tumbler on the table nearest him. With one hand he took out his phone and checked his calendar. At the bottom, near the end of the day, starting right after the dinner party, he had simply written 'Tony'. Steve smiled to himself and put the phone to sleep just as the dinner bell rang. He sat down two seats away from Tony, Clint and Natasha right next to him and bickering in hushed tones through the entire eight-course meal. He tried to catch Tony's eye throughout dinner, but Tony made a point of not looking at him, smiling at everyone except one person in particular.

* * *

"We're heading off," Clint called out, he and Natasha being the last ones left.

"I'll talk to you tomorrow," Steve responded. "Don't call me until noon, though," he added. He was going to be very occupied until then.

Tony watched as the attendants moved the plates onto carts and wheeled them into the kitchen, then as they cleared up the foyer as well as the antechamber to the dining room, working quickly, the entire floor spotless by the end of thirty minutes. Steve found him, standing there in the middle of the flurry of activity, unmoving except for his eyes. He came up next to him, and Tony leaned his head on Steve's shoulders.

"You do not know how much I hate those people."

"Why?"

"You deal with bad people all the time."

"I consider myself one of them."

Tony scoffed bitterly, and glanced briefly at Steve, smirking and shaking his head gently, looking back out at the workers moving around the floor again, his arms crossed.

"I'm corporate, Steve. Being corporate is worse than being in any possible crime syndicate, trust me. You guys fight the police. I subvert them. I can make the entire NYPD forget that the mob exists, and I can make New York a no-fly zone with a text message. The President doesn't declare war, I do. And that would be a very bad option for me, PR-wise, considering the flourishing black market arms trade in the Far East that uses my tech as tender. I have to deal with that," Tony added, frowning slightly.

"Quite a few skeletons in the closet."

"You have no idea. And the problem is, you're a mob boss. You're dating _me_. And I'm dating _you_. Just from a purely political standpoint, we are gods. If we want, we can make countries fall, in the blink of an eye. Our combined influence covers the entirety of New York, the cultural, political, and economic center of the world. And I'd like to gander that our overseas contacts command about as much as authority as domestically, maybe even more. Basically, we're the most dangerous tag team the world has ever seen."

"You're not suggesting another business proposition, are you? I didn't like the first one, I sure as hell won't like the second one."

Tony chuckled.

"No, I'm not going to ask you to do anything like that. Trust me, I'm the least qualified person to be sitting at the top of the world. I just… this is a warning, kind of. For both of us."

"No work and play?"

Tony looked taken aback.

"Of course we'll have work and play, hell yes, I want to do things to your gun—that's not a euphemism, by the way—that should be illegal. _Are _illegal, actually."

"Tony—"

"I'm just pointing it out. And, oh look, there's a flipside! There's a lot that could go wrong with us, Steve. We could crash and burn, and the fallout could… you know, kill people. A lot of people."

"That is, if we ever do."

"If we ever do. At this moment, that's looking unlikely," Tony smiled. "I wouldn't mind spending the next eight hundred years of my life with you."

"Why eight hundred?"

"I have something in R&D…"

"You're kidding me. Eight hundred years of life?"

Tony shrugged, mischievous smile tugging at his lips.

"I've got rats that are still living from the 70's. They haven't aged a day."

"Christ, you're terrifying."

Tony grinned devilishly.

"We'll see when human trials are ready. I'm looking at the next ten years. But back on topic, I think we should agree that in the event of a catastrophic failure in our relationship, we should… we should minimize the fallout."

Steve kissed Tony gently, eyes closed.

"If that does happen, trust me, on my part at least, I would never pull anything as low as that," Steve assured as he broke away. "I always want you in my life, Tony, whether we're doing this or not, I still want you in it. And you might not want me in it, and I can respect that, but it'd kill me, I know that much."

"Same here," Tony agreed. The last of the cleaning crew finished, the plates all wheeled into the kitchen, scrubbed, cleaned, and stored away for future use. The entire floor was silent. "And if you ever need anything from me, ever, even if we break things off, I will move heaven and hell to make sure it gets done, okay? Anything at all. I've got contacts in the upper levels of every single country in the world. I checked. I have hotlines to all the major powers of the world. And, dare I say it, the launch codes for Russia's arsenal."

"Oh God, Tony."

"Just kidding. But if you ever want one, they're like, four hundred mil a pop. Cheaper in former Soviet countries."

"Don't tempt me."

Tony laughed, and sighed into Steve's chest, his eyes closed.

"Anything at all, what's mine is yours," Tony reiterated.

"Same here," Steve repeated. It's been a mere five days into their relationship. Most people buy chocolates at around this time. They were buying nukes.


	7. Appassionata - Link

**A/N: This chapter is a bit too mature for FF. It's on AO3 under Keep Your Eyes Down if any are interested.**


	8. Giocoso

"Do your laundry!"

"Get a job!"

"I have one already! It's called living with you!"

* * *

Tony woke up with Steve already awake, his head against the headboard, texting.

"Hey. Sleep well?"

"Yup," Steve replied, aloof as his thumbs tapped away. Tony frowned, not at Steve's divided attention but at the model of the phone.

"You need a new phone."

"I like this one," Steve protested. "It's easy to use."

"Nonsense. How old is that thing?"

"Seven years," Steve responded quietly. Tony's anger flared.

"Are you kidding me? You have a seven-year old phone, and you don't come to me for one? God, Rogers."

"I don't want—"

"I've got a new phone in development. Any color or pattern you want. You look like a gunmetal person. I'll tell them to make a gunmetal one. Tricked out, totally awesome. It has more battery life than a grandfather clock and is just as reliable, trust me. You'll love it. Shock-proof, water-proof up to a thousand meters, pro camera built in."

"Okay, fine," Steve relented. It was easier just to let Tony steamroll on this one. "Just don't—not too expensive, okay?"

"Don't talk to me about expensive," Tony scolded. "Don't ever talk to me about expensive. If I'm going to do this with you, I'm going all out."

"Thanks," Steve responded, finishing his text to Clint with a bit of uncertainty in his voice. Tony seemed to like going all out.

"Well. Glad we got that figured out. Who're you texting, by the way?"

"You going to be the jealous guy?"

"I don't want you talking on the phone to _anyone else_, and you're not allowed to look at anybody except _me_, love me, Steve, _looooove me_," Tony mocked, climbing over Steve and dramatically flopping himself over Steve's torso, pretending to faint. He grinned, and slid off Steve's naked body. "Just curious."

"Clint, if you're dying to know."

"Is it dirty?"

"It's—what, no!" Steve frowned, indignant as he moved his phone out of Tony's reach. "I'm just telling him what we have to do today."

"It's Saturday."

"It's an all-week job."

"Can I spend a day with you? Sorry, for the past few days, I've been dragging you from doing your job, and do you mind if I steal one more day?"

"Um… sure, if you really want, I'm fine with it. It might get a bit messy, but most of it is pretty boring, though. I just kind of sit around with Clint and check my email and my phone, and if anything happens, most of the time, we just Skype some of the people involved."

"So none of that dingy godfather stuff? No lairs or hideouts and stuff like that?"

"Not really. I have an office, though, and it has the leather chair and the cigars and everything. I use it maybe, once every… never. Of course, there's the messier side of things, which you've seen, but that's rare, maybe once or twice a week. That's right, I have to get my hands dirty sometimes. Clint has men under him that report to him, and he reports directly to me. He does the day-to-day, while I make the general decisions."

"You're running a little bureaucracy here."

"Exactly. But most of it is just me driving around town and checking in on various ops while Clint sits at home in sweats, checking the police scanners and texting the people under him. He runs errands if he absolutely needs to or if I ask, but he can delegate most of it to subordinates."

"For your positions, you guys sound a lot like college roommates."

"Pretty much. Let's go. We can pick up breakfast on the way."

"Where do you guys go?"

"I never stay put for a long time, and Clint rarely has time to just sit there and twiddle his thumbs, he's usually texting people on the way to some place or another. He has a bit of downtime every now and then, though, and he works a lot at night, not so much during the day. Nothing really happens during the day," Steve explained, looking around for his underwear while Tony climbed out of bed. "Most things happen at night."

"Sorry for dragging you away," Tony apologized again.

"It's fine. Clint can pick up the slack."

"Do people come to you and beg for favors?"

"Yes. But it's by text nowadays, and it's more like 'Can I borrow five hundred grand?' and a wire number. That's about it, that and restaurants asking for backing and protection against rival mobs."

"I thought you were at the top of it all."

Steve scowled.

"Well, I say 'rival mobs.' It's a misnomer. There are always those idiots who think that they're 'independent' and that they can mess with me. That's bullshit. Everyone works for _me_. There is no such thing as a rival mob, even though they pretend that such a concept exists. There's some fighting in the different factions, and sometimes there are bumps in the system, but I make sure my mob runs as smoothly as possible. Luckily for me, modern tech has made micromanaging a thing of the past. We don't have dead drops and meetings under the bridge anymore, it's all Dropbox and encrypted PGP and whatever."

"I can help there. You ever get your messages intercepted?"

"We had an arrest last week with a document intercepted by the police presented as evidence."

"I'll upgrade your systems."

"We don't really have a system…"

"You don't need to. I'll have a little something for you by the end of tomorrow."

"Tony…"

Tony slipped on his silk vest and handed Steve his tie, eyes twinkling.

"Hey, let me do this _one thing_ for your mafia. If you won't let me fund you, or help you take over the world, at least let me keep your guys out on the streets."

Steve relented yet again. He was going to have to win a few arguments at least if he wanted to remain the boss. He couldn't stride into a meeting and let the negotiating parties walk all over him. But he couldn't exactly say 'no' to Tony either; his brain seemed to be wired so in such a way that that he just couldn't do it.

"Don't dazzle me with fireworks."

"It won't be. It'll be _useful_."

"Let's go. My car's in the garage."

* * *

"Tash, phone!"

"I'm busy!"

"Pick it up!"

"My hands are dirty!"

"Speaker! Pick up the damn phone!"

Natasha put down the knife on the cutting board and tapped the speaker button on the phone.

"Natasha Romanoff speaking."

"Hi, Natasha, this is Mark Newman, from yesterday. I just wanted to tell you that you got the job."

Clint's head popped in through the doorway at the words. Natasha ignored him, picking up her knife again and chopping away at he green onion.

"Oh, that's good to know. I'll get back to you on my decision. When do you need it?"

"Anytime in the next week would be wonderful."

"That's more than enough time, thank you."

The phone buzzed as Mark hung up, and kept droning until Natasha tapped the 'off' button.

"So what did you apply for?"

"Teller."

"Which bank?"

"Jansons."

"The branch down the street?"

"No, the one in Albany. Yes, the one down the street."

Clint thought about it a moment as Natasha chopped away.

"Don't take the job."

Natasha drove the tip of the knife into the board and threw up her hands.

"Okay, that's it, I have no idea how to deal with you. What do you want?"

"I—"

"This morning, you told me to get a job, I get one, and you tell me to turn it down, what's your deal?"

"I like having you around," Clint said simply.

"I'm not leaving if I get a job."

"No, like, I like having you _around_. You wouldn't be _around_ if you have a job."

"What, so I'm just here doing your chores for you?"

"No, it's just… it's really quiet in here, and this place is too big for one person."

Natasha went silent at that, and slowly started chopping the green onions again. The finished, swiped them into a bowl with the back of her knife and rinsed off the board.

"I don't have to take that job," she replied, her back to Clint.

"Thanks."

"But I still want to have a bit of money for myself."

"Don't worry about money."

"Okay, do you know what we're doing right now?" Natasha asked, turning around. She leaned against the counter. "We're about two weeks into a relationship, and guess what? We've moved in together, confessed our 'love' for each other, and bickered like we've been a thing for fourteen years, not days. Why are we moving so fast?"

"I don't know, yeah, it's really, faster than I've ever gone before, but—but it doesn't feel wrong, does it?"

Natasha looked into Clint's eyes, his faded blue eyes the color of an overcast sky. Yuck. This was getting mushy.

"No. It doesn't," she sighed, going back to chopping. "But I'm still taking the damn job."

* * *

"Nice building," Tony commented. They pulled up to the curb, right behind a dirty red Ferrari. "Nice car. Could be, at least."

"That's Clint's car. He hates it."

"Why doesn't he just get rid of it? He can get a different car if he wants."

Steve looked at him like was crazy. "Okay, so he can't just get rid of it," Tony acknowledged. They climbed out of the car, Steve holding a cardboard tray of paper coffee mugs while Tony grabbed the bag of donuts from the back seat of the Rolls Royce Steve borrowed for that morning's drive.

They walked up the few steps and knocked at his door. Natasha opened it, recognizing Steve, and smiling.

"Captain."

"Hey Tash. Can we come in?"

"Please."

She opened the door wide, used to his erratic appearances. She saw Tony standing next to him, and smiled politely.

"Mr. Stark, thank you for an amazing dinner last night."

"Don't mention it. And I totally agree, Clint shouldn't be tossing lentils at dinner guests while they aren't looking," he winked. Natasha liked him immediately, her first impression of him as a soulless corporate mastermind vanishing.

They entered the house, Tony looking around at a tastefully decorated and well-maintained house. Well, what Tony thought was a well-maintained house. He moved past the entrance and into the living room, which transitioned from perfect suburbia paradise to a frat house.

"Aren't brownstones supposed to be apartments?"

"Clint bought out the landlord and took down all the walls, following the original architecture."

"The effect is impressive."

"Hey, Steve, are we still doing the Heisman j—hello, Tony, didn't… welcome to my humble abode, I guess," Clint stuttered, quickly kicking dirty clothes and cups and empty, unwashed bowls under the couch while Natasha glared at him. "Sorry for the mess, I, uh, haven't had time to clean. Lately. With Steve. Being gone. So much. Sorry," he added again, grabbing old takeout boxes.

"I clean half of the house. And Clint gets the other half," Natasha explained. "That way, I don't go absolutely crazy."

"How long have you two been together?" Tony asked.

"Three weeks," they both answered, glaring daggers at each other. Tony whistled. He and Steve exchanged a look. They were still stuck in that idyllic first stage where no one argues with each other. Except for, you know, when a hitman calls out your name under duress, but anyway. Idyllic. But apart from that, Tony and Steve were also moving extraordinarily fast along their relationship mile markers. They were almost a week along and it felt like three months. Probably because they've been nearly inseparable. Tony suddenly felt exhaustion settle in. He's been hung up over Steve for the past six days, the amount of energy and time he put into making this work catching up with him, up until this point having floated on euphoria. He felt his knees buckle, and he hurriedly sat down, a pain surging up his back as a wooden drumstick jabbed him in the ass.

"Sorry, that's mine," Clint claimed, quickly snatching it out of Tony's hand and adding it to his growing pile of trash.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, just a bit… tired."

"You sure? You don't want to… take a nap, or something? We were up quite late last night."

"Spare me the details," Clint groaned. "I have two guest bedrooms if you want them, though."

Tony declined, seeing the state of this part of the house.

"I just haven't really gotten sleep the past few days. Well, less than the amount I usually get, at least."

"You can rest for a while if you want. Clint and I have to go over the Heisman job."

"You guys plan out the heists?"

"Only the really big ones. Other ones we approve. There are more than enough competent men capable of planning the less risky ones."

"What's on the table for this one?"

"Half a mil in gold bullion," Clint answered.

"That's nothing."

"Like I said, we don't take much," Steve explained.

"You guys are taking down an armored car?"

Clint and Steve looked at each other and laughed.

"An armored car? Those things protect the same things as Fort Knox and are actually harder to get in. We checked," Clint chuckled, shaking his head. "We couldn't get in if we redirected all of our men onto one car."

Tony shrugged.

"I can get you guys in."

"How?"

"Bluff."

"Bluffing's not our style," Steve answered. He frowned. He didn't want Tony getting caught up in all this, and crossed his arms. "Tony, I don't want you getting all messed up in this. You're here to watch, and that's it."

"I'm perfectly capable of handling myself."

"That's not it, it's just that, other people may not be so receptive to this…."

"Nepotism?"

"That's one way to put it."

"I'm fine with it," Clint offered.

"See? One supporter."

Steve glared at Clint, and he shrugged in response.

"Tony, a moment."

As soon as Steve pulled Tony aside, Natasha and Clint went for the throat again, something about food and windows. It didn't sound pretty.

They went into Clint's office, every flat surface covered in documents, passports, papers of various sizes tacked to the walls and taped to the ceiling even, newspaper clippings and headshots with faces circled in red sharpie, some of them scribbled out and other ones with an 'X' running through them. Steve stared at Tony with concern, hands on his shoulders. "Are you okay? You look exhausted."

"I think we're moving way too fast."

"Huh?"

"We're what, six days in? And we've basically moved in together. You haven't left my side except to sleep."

"Isn't that… like every start to a relationship? That first part where no one can really bear to be separated from their significant other for more than like, ten minutes?"

Tony shrugged.

"It's hard to sleep. I'm pathetic, I know, but I—I can't stop thinking about you. Literally. It's really annoying. The only thought in my head is the name 'Steve Rogers.' There's no image associated with it, just your name. At first it was pretty cute, but then it just got… repetitive. Sorry?"

Steve smiled.

"That is really cute."

"Shut up."

"Steve Rogers," Steve teased.

"I fucking hate you."

Steve laughed, soft and low, then his eyes turned serious again.

"Secondly, Tony, I don't want you to get messed up in all this."

"Why not?"

"Because, well… I don't want you to get hurt."

Tony frowned. Him? Hurt?

"I can hold my own, thanks."

"I don't think you can."

"Contrary to what you think, I can actually function by myself, Steve. I'm not trying to steal your thunder or whatever, or usurp you, I just want to help out."

"I don't need your help. I can function by myself as well, Tony.

"Good to know."

Steve sighed. This was getting complicated. Tony sensed it, too and smiled apologetically. "I don't think this is going to work."

"Are you… are you breaking up with me?"

"Good God no, that would be like holding the world's cutest puppy and then throwing it into a seething mass of hungry rats. I just don't think this business thing is going to happen. I stay out of your business, and you… I guess you stay out of mine, then, for the sake of consistency."

"I think that'd be best."

They stood there, Tony surrounded by the faces of a hundred people, the status of them unknown to him, but maybe to Steve. Whether they lived or died was in his hands, little blips on the radar that could be eliminated for the sake of the common good. Tony shuddered. He didn't want to get caught up with this, he couldn't wake up and look himself in the mirror. Anymore than he already hated himself, that is.

"I'm going to go. I'll—I'll figure out the whole Pryce mess, and I'll, I'll tell you what's going on when you get back, okay? And then, it's the last you'll hear of Tony Stark, at least from Captain Steve Rogers, anyway," Tony voice softly, pressing a gentle kiss to Steve's cheek at the end. He smiled, a bit sad. "When will I see you?"

"Before dinner-time, seven o'clock at the latest."

"See you then."

"Yup."

Tony walked out of the office. Steve stood there motionless as he heard the door open and close, and watched him as he slipped on a pair of sunglasses, climbed into the silver Rolls Royce, and wheeled away from the curb. Clint walked in the office.

"What's he doing? I thought he was hanging around for a bit."

"He didn't want to."

"Him? Or you?"

"I think us both," Steve conceded.

* * *

Banner turned off at the junction, his eyes struggling to stay open as he coursed down the highway, even though it was high noon. He drifted off for just a fraction of a second, his right hand slipped and his truck nearly careened into a ditch. A cow lowed as he sped past, tires screeching as he corrected his course, getting back on the pavement. He breathed out through his nose. He needed a nap. Banner pulled off the highway at the next exit and found a cheap motel. He paid for a smoking room with cash. He left no name. Banner grabbed his backpack and unlocked the door, the room smelling dusty and suffocating from the previous guest. Banner collapsed on the bed and fell asleep immediately, still in his clothes, his cap rolling off his head and onto the carpet.

* * *

"So we have Tucker as point, Crow as ground and I'll get Hewitt on air."

"You're not going in?"

"Not this one. Letting the boys run this one wild."

"Tucker and Crow, though?"

"They'll be fine. Crow can keep her hands to herself."

"I'm not so much worried about them ending up in bed together as I am that they'll accidentally set the escape car on fire."

"Oh, they've done that before. While having sex."

"You sure they'll be okay?"

Clint shrugged.

"They're two of my best people. I trust them to be professional, and there will be serious consequences if they behave otherwise."

"That's what I like to hear."

"So the intercept happens right when the fire alarm goes off."

"Yup. Should be straightforward. They'll be an actual fire, though, so your escape car woes are not unfounded. Don't worry, I'll make sure to pack a fire extinguisher or two."

"How much collateral are we looking at?"

"The fire is very, very minor, we're looking at minimal damage to an office, no more than three offices being deemed a loss on the second floor if it's controlled in time."

"And what happens if its not?"

"The bank burns down."

"That's reassuring."

Clint shrugged again. Steve frowned. He didn't like the odds looking at it. "Clint, that's a big cost for half a million."

"You called it, boss."

Steve looked down, brows furrowed. He needed to choose. Suck the bank dry or risk it burning down. Either way, no one gets out unharmed.

"Empty the vault," Steve ordered. Clint took out his phone and dialed a number. "Dugard? We're going to need a few more cars."

* * *

Natasha left as Clint and Steve spilled documents and maps and schematics over the floor, talking gangster mumbo-jumbo. She grabbed the keys to the Ferrari and drove to a park nearby, eating a salad on a bench in the shade. She fed some breadcrumbs to a few pigeons and stood up, walking around, stretching, and soaking in some sun. She considered dialing Clint to ask him to come to the gym, but he seemed busy, so she texted him instead. He responded with a simple frown. Okay, so that's a no.

She didn't want to go back to the brownstone, with Steve there. She'd feel like she was intruding. Natasha drummed her fingers on her arms, bored out of her mind. She sat back down, slightly sweaty from the sun and took out his phone, scrolling through her text messages. She didn't get Tony's number. Damn. Tony was someone she didn't mind talking to right now. Anyway, she could see Stark Tower on the skyline from here. Might as well. She had the keys to the Fucking Ferrari.

* * *

Tony went for a jog. He had a meeting right now, but he always did. A no-show was to be expected. Tony went for a good three miles, seeing if he could make it all the way down Park Ave, but bailing out less than halfway across. He walked his way back down the street, stopping briefly at a vendor for some bottled water. He showered and tapped the elevator button for his workshop floors.

"Welcome back, sir," JARVIS echoed as blue schematics from Tony's last visit down to this floor hovered midair, JARVIS loading them. Tony swiped them all to the side, balling them up into a glowing blue ball and tossing them into the archive.

"Let's start on some software, JARVIS."

"Very well, sir. Basic framework?"

"Malware.

"Sir?"

"It's a virus. Well, it acts like a virus. It's really just a security protocol. Kind of like a vaccine introduced via viral means. Ironically. Just take the basic code of a virus, okay?"

"As you wish, sir."

Bright lines of code streamed across the room. Tony let the first few lines pass and latched onto the next few.

"I want this virus on individual mailboxes, can you do that?"

"Done, sir."

A few more paragraphs of symbols spliced into the section Tony held, and he shoved it back into the main code, rearranging it when the sandbox spat out an error.

"Any New York mafia or mob related keywords in an email will trigger the attachment of this file. You know what I mean. Cross check affected mailboxes with known criminals. The more hits the more likely. Protocol 47b. Make it undetectable, and install automatically as a hidden extension into the email client itself. All authorized computers will be affected."

The code grew a couple of more feet.

"Anything else, sir?"

"Yes, security protocol. Double encrypt the emails with dual ciphers. I want this to be harder to crack than the CIA Kryptos. Automatically decrypt with the presence of this virus in the email client."

"This will take some time to write, please be patient, sir," JARVIS warned, as lines upon lines of code spat out and tacked themselves to the end of the growing sequence, looking like DNA as tags and variables inserted themselves as blank, pulsing fields, Tony filling some of them up manually where JARVIS' creativity simply couldn't cope with the complexity.

"Good, looks good," Tony commented. He read through the code. "Now do the same for text messages."

"Indeed, sir."

"Oh, and can you add in some anti-spyware code in there? Keyloggers, mirrored drives, the works, kick them all out."

"I'll copy down our mainframe's security protocols. Is that acceptable, sir?"

"Take out some things. I don't want all of our tech getting out."

"Done, sir."

"Oh, and make sure all documents are encrypted. Make the encryption… bit. That's good. Each computer with the virus have skeleton keys for such documents."

"All this is undetectable to both user and any prying eyes, am I correct, sir?"

"That's imperative."

Tony watched as the code grew and grew, bits and pieces snatched from here and there. He polished it off by wrapping it into a neat package, two little files that would sink into the computer's hard drive, beneath the operating system and completely out of sight. One for phones, one for computers.

"Covered all the bases?"

"I assume so. I would remind you otherwise."

"Oh, and JARVIS? Put in an order for a gunmetal StarkPhone. I want it tricked out with everything R&D has to offer. Rush it. I want it in ten minutes."

"Of course, sir."

* * *

Steve's phone buzzed on the bus. He flipped it open, the email taking a bit longer than usual to open. He frowned a bit at the last bit and tucked the ancient phone back into his jacket and hopped off at the next stop, walking a block back to his own apartment. He showered and changed into a dress shirt with a silk vest on top. He smiled as he tipped a fedora over his head and walked out the door.

* * *

"Mr. Stark? There's a Miss Romanoff here to see you."

"Oh, okay, send her up."

He glanced through the military contracts again. They wanted more weapons, new innovations, new killing inventions. More ways to make a man bleed without touching him, more ways to blow a hole in someone's head from miles away. Tony tossed the contracts into his shredder. Not that he didn't have those types of weapons; he just wanted to make sure that they never saw the light of day. And plus, those contracts would be dangerous if they landed in the wrong hands. One set of hands in particular.

The elevator dinged as the shredder ate through the final inch of the contracts, the entire stack about as thick as the Bible. The teeth chomped twice through the papers, two rows of gears that ripped the long strips from the first shred into tiny irregular rectangles, making it impossible for anyone to decode. He got it after he saw _Argo_.

The elevator opened, and he heard soft feet as Natasha walked in, holding a water bottle.

"Hi."

"Hi," he said, standing up. "Nice to see you again."

"So, uh…"

"Yeah, is there something I can do for you?"

Oh shit, Natasha didn't think she'd get this far. She thought she'd just be turned away at the reception, but now she was standing here in front of the man himself, one-on-one. This was getting awkward.

"I just… it was a bit stuffy with Steve and Clint in the same house."

"Oh, okay, yeah, you're free to come here anytime," he said, eyes crinkling as he smiled. "Anything you can use, just give me a call."

"Yeah, thanks."

She shuffled her feet, looking down at her hands. "Do you want to go get dinner?" She asked abruptly. "I know this is kind of sudden, but… Clint's not really, you know… good…"

"Boyfriend material?"

"Yeah. That."

"Natasha, I'm sorry, I can't, I'm… I'm not really available right now, you know, Captain Rogers," Tony said, coming around his desk and leaning on it, right in front of Natasha. He smiled warmly, concerned. "You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. That's… that's fine, it's fine, sorry to bother you like this, but I don't have your number, it's fine, so I thought it'd be better to come in person. Yeah. Fine. Sorry. I'll just go."

"Hey, hey, wait," Tony called after her, but she had slipped into the elevator by this point and tapped the button for the lobby. "Natasha, I'm—"

She didn't catch the last words as the doors slid shut.

* * *

"I said dress casual."

"This is casual."

"You're killing me here."

"This is how you dress on most days."

"That dress shirt is way too tight."

"I know," Steve smiled, kissing Tony lightly. "It's my way of apologizing for earlier."

"I should be sorry, I tried to force you into something I knew wouldn't be good for both of us. Oh, yeah, here's your new phone," Tony remembered, handing Steve a sleek matte grey box with a small bow on top. A tiny Stark Industries logo sat on the top left corner, with the letters running down the right side in glossy black letters.

"I told you not to go overboard."

"And when have I followed through on that advice?"

Tony stole Steve's fedora and placed it askew upon his own head with a crooked smile as Steve opened it and played around with it. It was a perfect rectangle of an onyx-like metal, ice cold in his palm and just heavy enough to grip safely without being a burden. The interface was extremely responsive but not overly sensitive, and the response time was nonexistent. The whole design was intuitive, natural, and somewhat… sexy.

"Hey, I love it. Looks awesome."

"Yup. Any questions, just ask me."

"Sure thing. Thanks, Tony. But one thing, what was that email you sent me earlier?"

"Oh, the virus? It's my security protocol for you. Any text messages you send with any sensitive information is encrypted twice, and would appear as garbage to any other system than the one you sent it to. The virus is attached to any text messages or emails from any computer or phone you send. It's locked onto your email client, so you could send an email from the library and still have it appear as a bunch of Cyrillic to prying eyes. Any attached documents are affected, too, but encrypted with forever ciphers."

"Forever ciphers?"

"Ciphers that theoretically take forever, literally forever, to crack. They're layered on top of each other and encrypted with security that I can't even begin to sum up. I actually can't, it's a NSA thing, those shitheads upstairs. It's basically the same stuff that I use to guard my own computers, and nothing can get in. You are welcome."

Tony grinned. "So what do you feel like tonight?"

"What?" Steve stood a bit dazed, overwhelmed by this information. "Can this program detect stings?" He asked, still going back to the software.

Tony snickered.

"No, you need a mirror on a stick to do that. Yes, all recipient emails will be checked against a database originating from the justice system itself of all known police stings. I also took the liberty of adding a bit that includes sweeping the entire mailbox of the recipient email address for any police-related terms."

"So…"

"It's the same search query algorithm I put in JARVIS. It's not going to block an email with like, "cop" as a subject to an email, but if there's anything cryptic or that sounds like a sting, to human ears, the email will pretend to go through, but it'll never get to the receiver. It's… it's kind of hard to explain, but you basically have a stripped-down JARVIS looking through your emails. It's like a human brain stunted of all desire other than to give the cops a bad day."

Steve scrolled through his emails. He looked up.

"How long did this take you?"

"About an hour and a half."

"All this?"

Tony shrugged.

"I had a lot of the code already written, so most of it was just telling JARVIS what I wanted. He wrote most of it. Of course, I wrote most of _him_, so yeah, it took about an hour and a half to write. If you really want to get down to the time it tok to write JARVIS, now you're looking at decades. I'm still fixing bugs. Like this one—JARVIS, cream soda, now!"

The lights flickered as a warped, deep voice came through the speakers.

"_Noooooooooooooooooooo…_"

Tony grimaced. "Yeah, that's still a problem. Now, you're bored to death, so—"

Steve slowly pulled Tony into a tight hug and breathed into his hair. The black-brown strands smelled of something metallic, something dark, and something… alcoholic.

"You smell like a beer bottle."

"Great, now you've figured out my shampoo."

"Have you been drinking?"

"No, it's just how I naturally smell."

"Tony."

"I had two scotches."

"How many two scotches did you have?"

Tony stayed silent. Steve sighed.

"We'll deal with that later. This means a lot to me though, Tony. I can't thank you enough."

"It's my brother."

"What?"

Steve pulled away from Tony, confused, at Tony's impassive face. Tony walked behind his desk and sat down, steeping his fingers and staring somewhere just behind Steve's head.

"I have a brother. His name's Gregory Stark. I hate him, he hates me. He killed Pryce, he killed Purcell, and he's going to kill me. Well, I'm going to kill him before that happens."


End file.
